Seeking Shelter
by Neoinean
Summary: Richie's first Christmas at the loft isn't what anyone expected.
1. It's Christmas Time in the City

Universe: A virtual "6th" season wherein "Modern Prometheus" was the finale of season 5 and ignores all events in the "real" season 5 finale and all of season 6, as well as the last movie. This season takes place 1997-1998

Summary: Richie's first Christmas with Mac and Tessa isn't exactly what everyone expected.

Disclaimer: If I owned them why would I waste my time posting to fanfic sites? I'd be off making lots and lots of money! But since I'm not, I therefore don't, nor do I pretend to.

* * *

It was bitingly cold out, which wasn't unusual for mid December in Seacouver. Fierce winds scattered brittle brown leaves without mercy until the streets were just as bare as the trees themselves. Scarves whipped about faces and empty plastic bags danced down sidewalks, tripping around parking meters and darting out in front of cars. Salvation Army Santas brought in extra change donated by passersby out of sheer pity. Puddles left over in yards and back alley potholes were frozen solid, much like the ponds in the public parks where children skated after school. The spirit of Christmas tried desperately to penetrate the frozen air, and those who felt it had a twinkle in their eye as they took in the colored lights wrapped around streetlights and circling the empty branches of the sculpted trees downtown. Those who didn't shivered as they stood in place, frustrated with the crowds, and changed the radio station whenever a carol began to play. 

The people that crowded the Seacouver mall this eighteenth of December were an odd mix of both, and Richie found that he could tell the difference by seeing who wished him 'Merry Christmas' when they shoved ahead of him in line. He did his very best not to let that bother him though. For the first time in a very long while, he was actually looking forward to Christmas. That was, of course, if he could actually get his shopping done before the big day. There was only a week left until Christmas and he had yet to buy a single present.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Tess?" Richie asked, or rather, he whined. Angie was at the top of his gift list, and he had no idea what to get her. He had lamented his plight to Tessa and she had taken pity on him, though as she dragged him rather reluctantly into a store that sold nothing but girly toiletries he began to wonder if this kind gesture was really a punishment in disguise.

"Of course," Tessa reassured him. "I have yet to meet a woman who doesn't love bath products."

Richie picked up an oddly shaped purple bottle, unscrewed the cap, took a whiff of the contents, and then made a face. "Whoa!" He coughed a few times, most likely for emphasis. "This stuff is strong enough to drop an ox!"

Tessa favored him with a disbelieving smirk. "And that stuff you lather all over yourself when you go out on dates is any less potent?"

"That's different, Tess," Richie defended his choice in cologne. "A guy's supposed to smell strong."

"Oh? And what are girls supposed to smell like, hmm?"

Richie grabbed the bottle again and read the label. "Lavender and lilac, apparently." Then he cast it aside, lamenting, "this is hopeless, Tess. Angie's apartment doesn't even have a bath tub—just a shower stall."

Tessa frowned pensively. "Well, what did you get her last year?"

"That's just it. I _didn't_ have to shop for her last year." At Tessa's confused look he clarified: "My friends and I do secret Santa. This is the first year I've gotten Angie's name."

"Well you must have had to buy her a gift at some point," Tessa persisted. "What about birthdays?"

"Last year I was broke so I spent the afternoon tuning her bike. The year before that I took her to the movies."

Tessa couldn't help but smile as she shook her head. "You're hopeless, Richie. You know that?"

"Well, yeah," Richie agreed. "That's why you agreed to help me."

Tessa merely laughed. "Come on. There are other stores we might try."

The bath store (as Richie dubbed it) was only marginally crowded. The main thoroughfare through the mall, however, was packed. Richie likened stepping across the threshold to trying to merge into mall traffic from a side street without a light—as Tessa was forced to do when she drove them there. Idly he wondered what the streets of Paris must be like, since Tessa was fearless behind the wheel and often had him clutching the Jesus bar for dear life as she navigated them to the mall. Richie felt no shame in holding onto the strap of Tessa's purse like a small child so that she didn't lose him in the mad dash to the next store.

"There's some nice stuff in here," she said as she pulled him into a jewelry store. "And not all of it is out of your price range."

Willing to try anything once, Richie strolled up to one of the display cases… only to have to consciously keep his jaw from dropping. The most expensive items had four digits after the dollar sign, but Richie suspected that as the cases retreated further inside the store, even more expensive items could be found. Richie wandered through in a daze, glancing at pearl necklaces and diamond rings, and found his hypothesis to be correct. However, Tessa was right, too. With his three hundred dollar Christmas bonus check, he could easily afford some of the items. A pair of garnet earrings caught his eye, set in twenty-four karat gold, on sale for eighty bucks.

"Those are nice," Tessa appraised, and Richie startled slightly. She'd come to stand behind him and peer over his shoulder into the display case without his even noticing her presence.

"They're perfect," Richie breathed, soft affection coloring his voice, though the tails of his sigh were tinged with palpable regret.

"But?" Tessa prompted, slightly confused.

Richie closed his eyes, tearing himself away from the sparkling twin gems. "But they're too expensive."

"But they cost less than a third of your bonus," Tessa saw fit to remind him. The only people Richie had ever mentioned needing to buy for were herself, Duncan, and Angie. If he spent a third of his bonus on each of them he could easily afford those earrings and have money left over since by his own admission he hadn't bought any gifts yet.

"I know," Richie agreed, still sounding regretful. He had his three hundred dollars from the bonus check and another three hundred saved from his weekly pay, however cash in hand was not the issue. "But we set a limit for the secret Santa, and those are way over it."

"Well how much _can_ you spend?"

"Twenty bucks."

Tessa frowned, and Richie wondered if he imagined the brief look of disgust that crossed her face just then. "That's all?" she balked, more than a little surprised.

"Everyone's got different incomes," Richie explained with a non-committal shrug. "It's better than last year though. I could only spend _fifteen_ bucks on Gary last Chanukah."

"What gift did you possibly find for fifteen dollars?" Tessa asked in disbelief, and Richie dutifully ignored the haughtiness that crept into her tone when he answered.

"Gary was into health foods so I found him a tofu cookbook in a used book store. It had all these great notations in the margins about how to change recipes around and stuff."

After spending several months under the same roof with the woman, he'd come to understand that she just didn't understand the impact of her words at times. She had always been one of those people who would donate heavily to charity from the comfort of her own home but would never even think of volunteering at the shelter, or one of the free clinics, or even the orphanage. She had plenty of compassion to spread around but was often sorely lacking in understanding.

"I'm surprised a marked book was allowed for resale," she mused, her frown becoming thoughtful for a moment.

"Oh, you'd be surprised what you can find in the used book store." And he hadn't meant to sound patronizing, really. It just sorta happened.

Yet either Tessa didn't hear it, or didn't care to comment on it. "I probably would," she agreed dismissively. Already her frown returned in full force. "Well, you're not going to find anything here—or in any other jewelry store. And clothes are out of the question as well, but the book store might be an idea. Come on."

Tessa turned abruptly and stalked out of the jewelry store at a brisk pace. Richie watched her go, reminding himself again that it was wrong to get upset with her. Tessa was still one of the nicest people he's ever met and the rest of her good qualities more than made up for what her naiveté brought about. It was just something he would have to deal with, he reminded himself again. Then with a long-suffering sigh he stepped out of the store and began his search for Tessa, who in his distraction he'd let get away from him.

Spotting her in the crowd was thankfully easy enough. Not many women wore white (faux) fur-lined suede jackets in Seacouver. Richie tried his best to catch up to her, but soon found himself running against the current without making much headway in the river of bodies. He finally caught up to her three stores farther down and reached out to grab the strap of her purse so that he could stay with her, but his fingers had barely secured around the thin strip of leather when he felt something hard hit the top of his shoulder.

"What do you think you're doing, punk?"

A mall security guard grabbed him roughly from behind and tried to rip him away from Tessa. He succeeded, but the purse strap in Richie's hand came with him. It tore free of the purse, which fell from Tessa's shoulder onto the ground, only to be kicked away by unsympathetic feet as the other shoppers ignored the small scene happening in their midst. Richie didn't have the chance to catch Tessa's reaction, however, because he was then roughly shoved up against one of the giant pots where the small palm trees grew in the center of the thoroughfare.

"Hey, take it easy buddy," Richie defended. A thick palm had a fistful of shirt at his shoulder and the meaty arm it was attached to pressed across his chest and pinned him against the pot. The guard's weight had Richie's back arching over the lip of the pot so that his feet barely touched the ground. "It's not what you think."

"Oh really," the guard taunted. "I suppose you were just trying to get the lady's attention, to tell her that she left her wallet in Sears?"

"C'mon man," Richie protested as his toes began whisking at air. "We were shopping together and we got separated. I was trying to catch up to her."

"By grabbing her purse?"

"Hey it's better than grabbing at the hood of her jacket!"

"She's too young to be your mother, kid. Why else would a lady with a Prada bag be shopping with a punk kid in ripped jeans and a grubby jacket?"

Richie opened his mouth for one of his patented sarcastic remarks but Tessa's angry voice cut him off.

"That is none of your business!" she hissed at the guard as she stomped towards them. The guard was so taken aback that his grip on Richie loosened enough for the teen to wriggle free. Tessa stepped protectively between him and the guard and Richie couldn't resist looking smug even as he peered out around her.

"Uh, I'm sorry, ma'am," the guard stammered. "But it looked like this kid was trying to steal your purse."

"And from where I stood it looked like you were trying to beat up a defenseless teenager who's barely half your size."

"I'm sorry," the guard repeated, flabbergasted.

Tessa's eyes narrowed almost threateningly. "I'm not the one you need to apologize to."

Richie saw the incredulous look the guard gave them and his smugness deflated, replaced with a tired sort of apathy. "It's ok, Tess," he assured in placating tones. "Let's just go."

With Richie's prompting Tessa convinced herself that it wasn't really worth it. With a final, scathing look at the guard, she allowed Richie to lead her by the elbow back the way they came. That's when he noticed that she had her broken purse tucked securely beneath her other arm.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, just loud enough for her to hear him. "I didn't mean to break that."

"It's not your fault Richie," Tessa assured him, a look of disgust plainly evident on her face. "If that guard hadn't manhandled you it wouldn't have happened."

Richie felt the heat of shame slightly coloring his cheeks. "Yeah, but if I wasn't dressed like a hoodlum—" he quoted her terminology for his preferred wardrobe, "—he wouldn't have been watching me."

"I asked Duncan for a new purse for Christmas anyway," Tessa lied instead of agreeing with him. While she grudgingly accepted the ripped jeans as being a misguided fashion statement, Richie's attachment to the 'grubby jacket,' as the guard put it, was beyond her comprehension. The black and green monstrosity was big and bulky yet too short in the sleeves, the zipper broke almost every other day, and it had more patches and loose threads in the lining than should be allowed by the laws of physics before there wasn't enough material to hold it all together. Once again she was reminded of why she bought him a new jacket for Christmas, and could only hope that his old one would last that long.

As the two of them wandered through the crowded bookstore Richie allowed his mind to drift back to his last Christmas. Everyone had exchanged gifts together in Angie's living room. Gary had really loved that cookbook but was in utter disbelief that it cost less than fifteen dollars and demanded that Richie show the receipt to prove it. Richie laughed aloud at the memory. It felt good to be able to laugh at thoughts of Gary again.

All told, that had been a decent Christmas. Gary bought Kyle a Zippo lighter with a pot leaf emblem emblazoned on its flip-top lid, Kyle bought Jimmie a Joan Jett pinup poster, Jimmie spent his limit on acrylic paints and canvas and painted a decent likeness of Larry racing his bike, and Larry had used a referral discount to get Angie a subscription to a motorcycle magazine. Angie's present to him had been the pair of gloves that were currently shoved in his pockets. They were the cheap elastic kind, but they were black, and they were warm, and Richie was grateful for them.

This year was different though. Most notably, of course, was Gary's prominent absence. It had been nearly two months since his death, but the reality that his friend wouldn't be there this Christmas was still difficult to wrap his mind around. Sadly though he wasn't the first friend Richie has had to bury; such was the life of the streets. He had already mailed his tasteful non-denominational holiday greeting card to the Corrells, and he was trying to decide whether or not to stop by sometime before Chanukah ended. He knew this time of year had to be rough on them.

Richie tore his mind away from the depressing aspects of this Christmas. He was supposed to be shopping for Angie, not brooding in the middle of a bookstore. He rounded the corner and found the gifts section, where the journals, bookmarks, and calendars were shelved, and there he met Tessa.

"Any luck?" she asked him.

Richie shook his head. "Nada."

That frown returned to Tessa's face. "It must be hard for you to find tasteful yet inexpensive gifts every year," she mused.

"Not really," Richie negated with a shrug. "I'm just no good at shopping for girls is all."

"But you've known Angie most of your life," Tessa countered. "Surely you know her well enough to be able to find a suitable Christmas present?"

"I guess not," Richie admitted, his shoulders sagging slightly in defeat.

"Well if you're not buying anything here I want to get going," said Tessa. "I don't like carrying my purse like this. I'm paranoid I'll set it down and then leave it somewhere."

Richie chuckled slightly though his lingering dejection despite the blush that crept into his cheeks again. "Sure," he acquiesced. "I think I should be hitting up the discount stores anyway."

Tessa nodded. "Let's go then."

Together they found their way out of the mall and into the parking garage. Richie zipped his jacket part way—where zipper got stuck, and pulled his gloves over his hands. Fortunately the garage sheltered them from the worst of the wind, but the first thing that Tessa did when the car turned over was blast the heat.

"You know," she began shortly after they left the garage. "It's rude to tell people how much you spent on their gifts anyway. What could it hurt if you exceeded your limit? Your friends wouldn't have to know."

"But I'd know, Tess," Richie protested.

"So? It's not like you're going to break the bank. If you can afford to spend a little extra, what's wrong with that?"

"It's wrong because the others can't."

"You're telling me that if one of your friends saw the perfect gift and had the money to buy it that they wouldn't splurge a little?"

"It would make the others feel bad."

"But how, since no one really knows _what_ you've spent? I assume that you do wrap the gifts and remove the price tags."

Richie bit his lip. Sure he removed the price tag, but Gary's cookbook he wrapped in a brown shopping bag, with no ribbon, bow, tag, or card. "I don't want to lie to them, Tess," he protested weakly.

"Well I think you're being silly," Tessa informed him. "If you can afford to do something nice for someone than you should do it. It shouldn't matter what your friends think about it."

Richie sighed silently and didn't answer. He didn't want to argue with Tessa. It really shouldn't have surprised him that she wouldn't be able to understand where he was coming from, and he had to stop letting it affect him like this. Her family had always been wealthy, and then she'd met Duncan. She didn't know what it was like to not get any presents for Christmas, or to have to buy the traditional meal with food stamps. Everything she's ever wanted has been handed to her. Of course she couldn't comprehend his reasons for not exceeding his spending limit when she's never felt the sting of not being able to afford something a simple as a gift for a friend. If she had, she would have never suggested that Richie evoke that type of shame in people as close to him as family.

"Do you think you could drop me off at Angie's?" he asked instead after a lengthy pause. "Maybe her mom will have some ideas."

"That sounds like a good idea," Tessa agreed. "Call us if you need a ride. It's too cold out for you to take the bus."

"Ok," Richie agreed as Tessa took the correct turnoff that would lead them into his old neighborhood. A few minutes later and she double-parked in front of Angie's apartment.

"Remember to call," Tessa reminded him as he climbed out of the car. Richie nodded distractedly and jogged over to the front door. He rung the bell and then danced in place a bit, trying to stay warm. Tessa waited until Mrs. Burke opened the door for him before pulling away.

"Richie!" Mrs. Burke greeted cheerfully.

"Hi Mrs. Burke," Richie greeted in return, shivering slightly.

"Well don't just stand there—come in! Come in, come in, come in!" Richie allowed himself to be ushered inside and Mrs. Burke shut the door behind him.

"Can I take your coat?" she asked, and Richie obliged her. "I'm afraid Angie's at the shelter right now, but she should be home fairly soon. Can I get you anything? I can make hot cocoa."

"Yeah, that'd be great." Richie accepted her offer at sat down at the kitchen table. He watched her fill a mug with water, empty a Swiss Miss packet into it, and put the mug in the microwave. Then she turned to face him.

"How have you been, Richie? Do you still live above that antique store?"

Richie's smile came easily as he answered. "Yeah."

"Do you like it? Angie said it's nice."

"I do," Richie admitted easily. "They owners are great people. They've been real good to me."

"I'm glad, Richie. I'm not ashamed to admit that I was worried for you when you turned eighteen, about you being on your own like that; but now look at you. You've got a decent job and everything!"

Richie blushed under her sudden praise. "I've got Mac and Tessa to thank for that. They gave me the job _way_ before they offered me their spare bedroom."

"You've got our Lord to thank for that," Mrs. Burke corrected him gently. "It was so very Christian of them to take you in like that." Just then the microwave beeped. She removed the mug of cocoa and placed it down in front of Richie, along with a spoon to stir it with.

Richie stirred it gently and watched the steam swirl and rise from the hot liquid. Then he scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, and sipped gingerly. He smiled brightly at Mrs. Burke for effect. The cocoa was still way too hot to drink.

"Well, I'm sure Angie will be here soon. I'm sorry to make you wait like this, it's just that the shelter's so understaffed that Angie's been volunteering more and more hours. Some days I don't know when she's coming home until she calls me."

"Wow. You'd think that people would be more willing to volunteer around Christmas time," Richie observed

"Yes, you would," Mrs. Burke agreed sadly. "But you know how it is; everyone's always rushing around, having to shop, having to visit family, unable to do a single good turn for another human being in the midst of all the hustle and bustle."

Richie nodded sadly. He'd volunteered at the shelter once or twice, but really only to spend time with Angie. Perhaps it was the holiday spirit, but now he was feeling slightly guilty about it. After all, it's not like Duncan and Tessa wouldn't give him the time off for something like that.

"She's even volunteering on Christmas eve," Mrs. Burke continued. "I'm proud of her for doing it, but it would have been nice if she could have gone with me to see my parents' in Cloverbrook. Her cousins are going this year and she hasn't seen them in ages."

This caught Richie by surprise. "Really?"

Mrs. Burke nodded. "I don't think she knew her cousins were coming when she volunteered, but still, it'll be a shame that she'll miss them."

Richie nodded thoughtfully. "Do you know what her hours are on Christmas Eve?"

"She's working through the dinner rush. By the time she gets out it'll be too late for her to make the drive out to the country—and I don't want her trying it on her bike, besides. It's supposed to snow."

"It is?" Richie sounded oddly hopeful. Seacouver hadn't had a white Christmas in nearly ten years.

Mrs. Burke favored him with a smile. "That's what all the forecasters are saying. It's supposed to start snowing sometime after dinner on Christmas Eve."

"Wow," Richie exclaimed with soft reverence. "A white Christmas. Wouldn't that be something?"

"It'll certainly be a change from the rain we've had these past few years. Always makes everything look so dreary."

Richie nodded. He took a test sip of his cocoa and found it cool enough to drink. That gave him the perfect cover for the lapse in conversation. His mind was already racing, taking the information Mrs. Burke gave him and formulating a plan. He could easily use the twenty dollars he was allotted to put gas in the T-bird. If it wasn't snowing he could drive Angie to her grandparents' house and if it was, surely Mac wouldn't mind the drive. He finished his cocoa in one long gulp and then smiled broadly.

"Thanks, Mrs. Burke. I think you've just solved the riddle of what I can get Angie for Christmas."

Mrs. Burke was obviously confused, but she returned the smile anyway, even with the confusion still plainly visible in her eyes. "Oh. Glad to be of help, dear."

Richie stood and leaned across the table to plant a kiss on Mrs. Burke's cheek. "And thanks for the cocoa," he said as he stood back up. He glanced at the clock on the wall and noted the time. "If I hustle I can just make the next bus."

Mrs. Burke frowned slightly. "Oh. Are you sure it's not too cold out? I could give you a lift…"

"Nah. The buses are heated. And besides, I'm not going straight home."

"Oh, well, if you're sure dear," said Mrs. Burke as she stood up. She walked over to the coat rack to retrieve Richie's racing jacket when suddenly the front door opened.

"Hey mom, I—Richie!"

"Hey, Angie," Richie waved to her as he accepted his jacket from Mrs. Burke. "I just stopped by for some of your mom's hot chocolate."

Angie smirked at him. "It's a store brand, Richie," she admonished him. "What are you doing here?" Her tone was playful, showing that despite her words, she was actually pleased—and curious, to see him.

"Hey I'll have you know that you've got a whole box of Swiss Miss sitting on your counter," Richie pointed out with a grin.

Angie blinked in surprise. "Mom?"

"It's Christmas, dear. I thought we could splurge a little—especially when your friends stop by for the gift swap."

Angie's face broke into a large grin and she hugged her mother. "Thanks, mom." After the brief yet affectionate embrace she pulled away and turned to face Richie again. "So you stopped by here for hot chocolate?" She asked, teasingly disbelieving.

"Actually, I wanted to ask your mom what I should get you for Christmas."

"Oh?" Angie turned back to her mother. "What did you tell him?"

Mrs. Burke's face still reflected her earlier confusion. "That's just it, I didn't tell him anything."

"Sure you did," Richie informed her. Then his serious expression melted into a smirk. "You just don't know it yet."

Mrs. Burke was clearly still confused, but she nodded anyway.

"Uh oh, mom, what did you tell him?" Angie asked with playfully elevated concern.

Richie just grinned conspiringly and wrapped an arm around Mrs. Burke's shoulders. "Uh-uh-ah! _That _would be cheating."

Angie mock-scowled at Richie's smug expression. "Of course you would know," she teased. "And _who_ tried rummaging through my closet last year to find my gift for him?"

Richie had the good sense to blush at the accusation, especially when Mrs. Burke started laughing.

"You didn't!"

"Oh, Richie's always been a nosy-parker," Angie told her mom. "Last year it was snooping. The year before that, bribery!"

"Hey just because I happened to know exactly what Maria wanted Larry to get her…"

"But she was your foster sister, Richie—that's cheating!"

"What cheating?" Richie defended. "She wanted Larry to get her a necklace, and Larry happened to know what Kyle got me. That's not bribery, it's trading."

"Well it's still cheating!" Angie protested with just as much amusement as Richie.

By now Mrs. Burke was shaking her head, laughing to herself but trying to keep it quiet. "You two are incorrigible, you know that?"

"Me?" Angie balked with mock-incredulousness. "What I do?"

Her mom just continued to laugh, and Richie gave her an affectionate squeeze with his arm before dropping it to his side at last.

"Not that it mattered," he lamented. "They broke up."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Burke interjected. "I hope you weren't caught in the middle, Richie."

Richie winced. "Well, not really, I guess," he offered lamely. "Uh, Angie? Do you think you could give me a ride? I… I've got some things to take care of."

Angie's eyes held sympathy. "Sure, Rich. Just let me grab my spare helmet."

As Angie walked back through the apartment towards her bedroom Richie plastered a smile on his face.

"Thanks again for the cocoa, Mrs. Burke."

"Oh. You're quite welcome, dear. If I don't see you again, have a merry Christmas."

"You too," Richie returned as cheerfully as he could through that fake smile.

"Ready?" Angie asked as she approached them again, carrying her spare helmet in one hand.

"Sure,"

Angie tossed the helmet to him, which he easily caught. "Then let's go." She walked past him to the front door. "My bike's chained in the alley."

"Cool." Richie nodded once to Mrs. Burke, then waltzed himself out the door.

Angie suddenly turned back in the doorway. "Oh, mom, I picked up another late shift tonight. If I'm not home before, I'll be done at ten."

"Ok, dear," Mrs. Burke acknowledged with a fond smile. "Stay warm out there."

Angie took that moment to wrap her scarf about her neck and zip her pleather jacket up all the way. "That's the plan. See you."

Mrs. Burke nodded to her daughter and Angie departed. She found Richie waiting patiently beside her bike.

"So where to?" she asked cheerfully. To her surprise, Richie sighed tiredly.

"Home I guess."

Angie blinked in confusion. "But I thought you had things to do?"

Richie fidgeted nervously, running a hand through his shaggy mop of strawberry blond curls. "Well, I do still have shopping to do," he admitted.

Angie's confusion soon melted into a pensive frown. "I'm sorry, Rich. I didn't mean to bring that up."

"Hey, don't worry about it," Richie quickly brushed off her concern. "Water under the bridge, right?"

Angie's expression didn't change. "I dunno," she challenged. "You tell me."

Richie sighed again and allowed his shoulders to slump, dropping his gaze to the pavement as he did so. When he looked up again his eyes were tired. "I should be over it by now," he lamented.

"Have you heard from them recently?"

Richie shook his head. "Not since I moved into the loft."

"Do you still have their address?"

"I lost it when my apartment blew up."

"Well, you've got their name, right?" Angie asked hopefully. "Can't you call information or something?"

"I don't remember the town," Richie admitted. "What do I do? Dial 411 and ask for a Sophie Tompkins somewhere in the state of New Jersey?"

Angie sighed at Richie's defensive tone. She knew from hard experience that any rational part of the conversation was over. "I'm sorry."

Once again Richie shrugged it off. "Eh, what are you gonna do, right? And it's not like it should matter anyway. They moved over a year ago."

Angie bit her lip. While she loved Richie to death, dealing with his mercurial moods was often taxing. Sophie Tompkins had fostered Richie for nearly two years. She'd chosen him because he was the same age as her daughter Maria; and perhaps to fill the void left after her husband's heart attack. Maria was a good sister for Richie, Angie remembered. Her grief over her father's death enabled Richie to reach out to her, and the two of them bonded almost instantly. Though she had her own friends she fit in well with his, and even had a brief romantic fling with Larry before the relationship was cut short by circumstance.

Richie had thrived in the Tompkins home, doing well in school and even making the basketball team. When Sophie's job transferred her to New Jersey she had tried to bring Richie with them, but because he was still a ward of Washington State that would have only be possible if she legally adopted him, and by then it would have been impossible to complete the adoption before his eighteenth birthday. Though it was hard on all of them Sophie moved with her job. She and Maria were now three thousand miles away, and Richie had wound up in the custody of what proved to be his final foster father before finally earning his freedom.

They had all promised to stay in touch though, and Angie was certain that they had—until Richie lost his apartment. Now their letters would bounce back through the postal service to New Jersey, and without a return address Richie had no idea where they were. If Angie had known that last fact, she never would have mentioned Maria so casually. As much as Richie claimed that he should be 'over it,' it had always been clear—to those who chose to look, that he never quite let go of the pain.

To those who chose to look, Richie never quite let go of a lot of things.

"Come on," she said at length. "I've got stuff to do too."

Richie nodded mutely and put the helmet on. Then he climbed on the bike behind Angie and they were underway less than a minute later.

Above them, the deepening Seacouver twilight revealed the first light of frozen stars.


	2. I'll Be Home For Christmas

"Thanks for the ride," Richie offered sincerely enough as he handed his helmet back to Angie. She took it and secured it to her bike.

"No problem."

A silence stretched between them then as they stood there, in the alley behind the store, seemingly staring through each other rather than looking to each other's eyes. For himself, Richie was stewing on distant thoughts, and Angie… was too afraid to ask him what those thoughts could mean.

Then her eyes snapped back to his. "Will I see you at the gift swap?"

"How else am I supposed to give you your present?"

Angie smiled, a gesture washed in relief. "Good. It's at my place, Christmas Eve."

Richie nodded. "It always is."

Angie's smile faltered then. It fell from her eyes even as her lips widened to compensate. "So I—" the stutter was covered by an awkward hand, brushing a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll see you then?"

"Count on it," Richie promised.

Angie tried for the smile again as she backed away, reaching out blindly behind her for her bike. When her hand brushed against the handlebars her grip clamped down on their hard rubber, white knuckles hidden beneath riding gloves.

"Good," she affirmed, even as she savored the lifeline in her grasp. To her, the bike had always been a symbol of freedom.

Richie too had started backpedaling, as if Angie's actions had somehow given him permission. He strayed absently, moving closer to the door to Tessa's workshop. A refuge lay behind that slab of reinforced steel, a place that he had come to equate with safety and protection.

In the widening gulf, the gust of wind that suddenly tore through the alley was cruelly frigid as it parted the two old friends. Richie saw it loft Angie's hair, carrying a few errant strands across her face. She seemed to allow the transgression even as she recoiled behind an elongated blink of chestnut lashes. Her free hand found her pocket, seeking warmth there despite the gloves, while her other gripped her bike handle even tighter—ostensibly to keep the thing from blowing over. There she stood, eyes closed and face obscured, her rigidity the only outward sign of her discomfort. There she stood, the unapproachable pillar of tainted perfection that Richie had always cherished in his childhood.

And that was _all_ Richie saw, as he was forced to look away, to give the wind his back. He felt it break across the plastic of his racing jacket, not penetrating there but instead finding the soft flesh at the base of his spine, just above his jeans, where the jacket did not reach. He shivered as the cold lanced through his thin sweatshirt, and again as he brought his hands in close to his chest to protect the area above where the broken zipper stopped. The wind still managed to dance around his naked wrists however, in the gap between the end of his sleeves and where the gloves began. That jacket was an anachronism, a relic from a lifetime past that was too readily proven an inadequate shelter.

Then just as suddenly the wind died down. Richie uncoiled from himself and turned back to face his longtime friend, feeling the awkwardness of the movement and blaming it on the unbearable chill in his joints. He then saw that Angie's position was unchanged, though now she brought that pocketed hand up and gathered her hair out of her face again with one fluid motion.

"You should get inside," she told him, her voice echoing hollowly in the suddenly expansive alley.

Richie smiled absently. "So should you."

Angie's smile was brittle, but it seemed there was laughter in her eyes. "I'm going shopping," she said, almost defensively, making the statement sound like an excuse.

Richie simply nodded, perhaps in acquiescence. "Watch the crowds at the mall," he warned, his voice returning to its old, careworn charms. "And the security guards," he added with a mischievous smirk. "They're worse."

Angie laughed at the untold joke, perhaps a bit too readily. "Maybe I'll head downtown then."

"Have fun," Richie said, his parting gesture.

"I'll see you soon," Angie replied as she grabbed her helmet and strapped it to her head again. Then she straddled her bike and kicked it into gear. The sound of the revving engine resounded impossibly loud in Richie's numb ears, but a second later and all that remained of Angie was the faintest wisps of exhaust that lingered in the alley behind her departure.

"You should check your oil," he said to no one as he turned, one hand securing around the doorknob almost absently as the other fumbled in his pocket for his keys. With a faint click, the lock gave way, and Richie shoved against the heavy door. The soft groan the hinges gave sounded eerily like a sigh of relief.

Tessa's workshop was warmer than the air outside, if only because it was spared the wind. Sparse heat kept it above freezing for the sake of the pipes, but whenever Tessa wanted warmth that her work couldn't provide, there was a small space heater in the corner that suited well enough. Compared to outside, though, it was downright balmy, and Richie took off his gloves and shoved them in his pockets as he made his way to the door that led into the store.

There he found Duncan, standing behind the counter, cashing out the register.

"Hey, Mac."

The highlander looked up at the sudden sound. "Oh, hi Rich. I thought you were going to call."

"That was only if I needed a ride. Angie gave me a lift."

Duncan nodded. "Ah. Get any gift ideas?"

"Yeah, actually," Richie admitted cautiously. "I, uh, kinda need to talk to you about it first though. You busy?"

Duncan noted the hesitation in Richie's voice and fought to keep himself from frowning. The lad only sounded like that when he was about to ask a question where he feared he already knew the answer. Such hesitation stemmed from insecurity and a fear of overstepping his bounds. If taken as signs of respect and propriety, those tendencies were refreshing, but on the flip side Duncan certainly didn't want Richie to be afraid to approach him—about anything. They'd come a long way these past few months, and the highlander was secure in the knowledge that Richie trusted him, but the undercurrent of fear hadn't quite gone away.

"Not at all," Duncan assured, and Richie couldn't help but smile in relief. "Just let me finish up here and I'll see you upstairs."

"Sure," Richie agreed through that smile.

Duncan returned the gesture in what he hoped was an encouraging way, and then the teenager bounded up the stairs to the loft, two at a time.

In the hallway that led from the stairs into the loft apartment, Richie kicked off his sneakers on the welcome mat and hung his jacket on the mounted coat rack. Then he continued on into the kitchen, where Tessa was standing at the counter tossing a salad.

"Hey, Tess."

"Hello Richie. I didn't hear you come in."

"Yeah, I just got here—Angie gave me a ride." He suddenly worried that Tessa would make an issue of the fact he hadn't called, even though, technically, he hadn't needed to.

"Well you've got about fifteen minutes until dinner is ready."

Richie nearly sighed in relief. "Cool. What's in the oven?"

"A glazed ham."

Richie's eyes lit up. "Sweet!" Glazed ham was one of the few 'American' dishes Tessa could prepare as well as her traditional French ones. He loved it just about as much as he loved Duncan's homemade Italian.

Tessa's pleasure at his reaction was deftly covered by a smirk. While Richie had never openly complained about her cooking—except for that one time she tried to get him to eat escargot—there were definitely some dishes that he liked more than others, and she knew the ham to be his favorite. Having someone besides Duncan praise her cooking still hadn't gotten old.

"That should give you enough time to shower," she informed him, looking up at last. "So you can thaw."

"I'm not _that_ cold, Tess."

"Your face is still red," Tessa pointed out. "Go on. It won't kill you to wash up for dinner, but you'll be sorely disappointed if you catch cold for Christmas."

Richie grudgingly—yet good-naturedly—had to admit that she was right. He caved. "Ok. I'll be out in a few."

* * *

The shower was warm and inviting. It rinsed away the lingering grip of winter chill and left him enervated, but content. When he stepped out of the tub, Richie grabbed a clean towel and languidly dried himself off, savoring the feel of clean cotton against his skin in the misty, humid air. Before he left he'd need to turn on the bathroom vent, but for now the warm comfort he felt as he dressed himself in baggy sweats was enough to make the memory of the bitterness of the outside world fade away. Then finally, with an odd blend of resignation and anticipation, Richie ran a pruned hand through his hair to make sure it wasn't dripping wet, hung his towel on the rack on the back of the door, and simultaneously clicked on the fan and switched the light off. The remaining steam billowed out into the hallway when he opened the door, and the scent of dinner wafted by on a refreshingly cool draft. Richie smiled wide in anticipation as he made his way to the dining area. 

He didn't make it very far.

"_But those earrings would have been perfect for Angie, and he wouldn't buy them._"

Richie stopped short when he heard Tessa's voice. Obviously she was speaking to Duncan. And about _him_. Against his better judgment, Richie clung to the shadows in the back of the hallway, and continued to listen.

"_I guess he thought they were too expensive._"

"_But they were only eighty dollars. He could have easily afforded them._"

"_That doesn't matter if they were over his spending limit._"

"_Please, Duncan. My friends and I would do gift swap at the Sorbonne. No one ever stuck to the limit—it was too confining._"

"_So? Richie's friends like sticking to their limit._"

"_If you see a gift that would be perfect for somebody—and you can afford it_—_you buy it. Gift-giving shouldn't be about weighing costs._"

"_Whatever happed to 'it's the thought that counts'?_"

"_Not when your thoughts are centered more on your own purse strings than on the other person._"

"_That can't be it, Tess. Richie has enough money saved to not have to worry about pinching pennies._"

"_But that's just it, Duncan. It makes me wonder what he's so concerned about affording._"

"_What do you mean?_"

"_Have you **seen**__ the way he ogles those catalogs we get? Especially the electronics ones?_"

"_You think Richie is saving up to buy something for himself?_"

"_Don't you? Duncan, Richie has enjoyed spending the money he earns. He bought his bike—and is still buying outfitting for it. And there's his stereo, his television, all those CDs…_"

"_Well what's he supposed to do with it, Tess? I can get him a savings account, but I can't make him use it._"

"_But don't you see? Richie's never had enough money to even **have**__ a savings account before he started working here, and now that he has it, it burns holes in his pockets._"

"_So you're saying that Richie's going to spend his bonus check on himself?_"

"_Why else would he hoard it so? Only spending twenty dollars on your best friend is pathetic, Duncan._"

There was a considerable pause during which Richie unconsciously held his breath. As much as Tessa's accusations hurt him—and they had, deeply—Duncan had been standing up for him against her slander. The highlander's arguments for his strength of character were serving as his anchor, the only restraining force that kept the anger, confusion, and pain from pooling too deeply in his eyes and spilling over.

"_You said yourself, Tess, that Richie's never had the money to spend on himself. Before he came to live with us, he had to decide between paying rent and buying groceries, and you know the neighborhood he's from. If he **has **__decided to spoil himself a bit with his newfound wealth… who are we to judge him for it?_"

Whatever the rest of the conversation held, Richie didn't hear a word of it. He stood in place—indeed, he hadn't moved an inch since his eavesdropping began—but the rest of the words washed over him in an unintelligible blur, as though the tears that now diluted his vision had also washed over into his ears. The air in his lungs seemed to reach up to try to choke him, and he gagged on a strangled gasp that tried to shove its way painfully passed the lump in his throat. A wincing blink, and then Richie's body tumbled to the right and into a blind stumble across the threshold of his bedroom. Then his knee met the painful realization that a few months wasn't nearly enough time to build muscle memory. He collided with the end of his bed and with a strangled yip of pained surprise, collapsed down upon it.

"Fuck!" He spat the curse as though the word itself was poisonous. Then he shoved a thumb and forefinger into his eyes until his blackened vision danced with gray spots, as though mere pressure alone could staunch the shameful release of tears. And though he'd only sworn once, it was like something inside him cracked and broke wide open, allowing all the language he'd forbidden himself from using in front of Mac and Tessa to gush from him, "fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-_fuck!_" as he hemorrhaged his self control. Unbearably tense, his body coiled around the pain of it as he turned his back to the door.

"Fuck _them!_" The words were rough and jagged, torn all to shreds by the constriction in his throat. One arm wrapped around his shins, pulling his knees in tight until the bruised one began to throb in protest. His other hand, now barely touching his eyelids as his head winced away from the contact of his own flesh, balled into a fist and pounded hard into mattress just below his pillows. "Fuck them…" Richie repeated, forcing the sound up and out despite the hurt of it, but whatever strength remained in his voice was stolen as he suddenly siezed up again, his whole body snapping into frozen angles, a human tangle along which tension thrummed and quivered like current through electrical wire. The tears streamed down his face unheeded as Richie convulsed in his own pain.

Years of hard necessity had taught him how to suffer in silence, to wail in his grief without a sound, and Richie availed himself of those skills now. A passerby wouldn't have heard a thing, but if they paid close attention they might have spotted the shaking, the tiny tremors that served as a reminder of how toughness eventually gave way to frailty, and that even the hardest exteriors had a measure of fragility… and could be shattered.

But no one saw. There was no one there to see.

His fist clenched and unclenched, entwining blankets and bed sheets, as Richie rode out the rest of his anguish in silence. "Fuck," he cursed again, maybe for the habit of it, like maybe his mental gear shift got stuck on profanity and he didn't quite know how to jar it loose. A great exhaustion settled into his bones; the weariness that came from resignation, from acceptance. Then slowly, like a shuddering exhale, Richie's body relaxed and at last unclenched itself. He lay sprawled on his bed, eyes puffy, face wet, entirely drained of all energy and worse—of the ability to care.

"Fuck _me_." Barely a rasp, overflowing with desolation and self-pity.

Moments ticked by and Richie lay still. Minutes passed. It might have been hours, for all Richie knew. He was exhausted, and would have welcomed the release of sleep. Yet peace was not so easily granted, and a kaleidoscope of painful thoughts taunted him at its leisure. Tessa's beliefs—her assumptions, really—stabbed at his heart like a red-hot poker. She thought he was cheap, that he was saving all his money to buy something for himself. She thought him a miser—and worse, that he hid his tendencies behind an obligation to adhere to regulation.

If he was honest with himself, he could see where the notion came from. Richie Ryan willfully sticking to the rules? _Yeah. And there are snowballs in hell._

But founded or no, hearing Tessa's opinion of him like that was still devastating. To think—to _know_—that she believed he would rather spend all his money on himself this first Christmas where he actually had real money to spend, that she believed he would willfully pass up the chance to buy the perfect gift for Angie—_his_ Angie, to whom he'd gift the moon if he thought for one second that she wanted it…

Well, Richie was used to people's low opinions of him. In fact, for a goodly while he'd worked long and hard at cultivating them himself. Expectations were easier when they were lower, anyway. And for the longest time, he'd convinced himself that he was above the pain that came from knowing he was a disappointment, that it was part of a hazy, distant memory that had no place in his life at the loft. Sure he's _disappointed_ Mac and Tessa before—he was only human after all—and he'd burned each time from the shame of it.

This time was different though.

This time, it was worse.

And that pain he could have sworn he couldn't remember? He's never felt it more keenly than he did in that moment. This time he didn't disappoint Tessa, but rather _he was_ the disappointment.

And then… then there was Mac. The fact that he finally gave in to Tessa's arguments wasn't bad enough—in fact, Richie had been breathlessly expecting it from the moment his eavesdropping began. There was no surprise there, and the cynicism had protected him from the additional pain it could have caused, but then… _Then!_

Then Mac had said, quite plainly, that Richie could not be blamed, had said that, having always been poor, Richie's sudden cash flow had blindsided him—turned him greedy and selfish. Mac hadn't been disappointed—hadn't judged him, the way that Tessa had. Oh no, instead he excused it, _accepted_ it even, like it was a natural and acceptable way to behave. While Tessa had expected better of him, Mac… Mac had expected _this_.

In a flood, Richie's own mantra came rushing back to gag him. _Keep your expectations low enough and you'll never be hurt..._

Tessa's disappointment stemmed from her high expectations, which meant that he had _given her reason_ for those expectations. He remembered all to well, when he first came to work for them, how low her expectations of him had been. Since then he'd fought long and hard to get her to change her views, and change them she had—drastically. What she perceived tonight had cost him a lot of ground with her, but as Richie collected himself after his tantrum, the old argument came back to him. _Tessa can't possibly understand_… And he would change her mind of course, in the course of his gift giving. He would prove himself worthy of her expectations again, he _would!_ He had to. There was no other choice.

But Mac? Mac's opinions of him obviously hadn't changed these past months, and that… that hurt worst of all.

Because he was at a loss as to how to change it now.

"Richie?"

_Fuck!_ This time the curse was confined to his thoughts, because his voice voice answered: "in a sec!"

It was Tessa, calling him to dinner. Obviously he wasn't as late as he originally though. With a final sigh, Richie pulled himself to a sitting position. He grabbed a tissue from his nightstand and blew his nose, then threw the tissue away as he stood up. A brief inspection in the mirror showed that the tracks of his tears had melted away, but his eyes were still slightly red. He took a few deep, calming breaths, and then resigned himself to the prospect of dinner.

* * *

Tessa's glazed ham. It was one of his favorite meals on earth. It was better than pizza from DiMarino's, it was better than ribs at Sam's. It was even better than Mrs. Burke's homemade Christmas cookies.

Tonight, it tasted like ash.

Richie forced himself to choke it down with generous sips of water. He barely touched the mashed potatoes, and completely ignored the salad. Duncan and Tessa were discussing what gifts they still needed to buy for their mutual friends, but sooner or later they'd notice that Richie's infamous appetite wasn't up to snuff, and then they'd start asking questions. Richie had already decided to feign sick if the need arouse—it would get him out of further socialization for the evening, and tonight he was feeling distinctly anti-social.

"Perhaps Richie could mind the store," Tessa's voice drifted his way from across the table, catching the teenager's attention. "That way we could go together."

"Huh?" Richie asked around a hasty swallow of water.

"That'll only work if they're available in the afternoon, Tess," Duncan pointed out to her, effectively ignoring Richie.

Tessa frowned. "Do you think we should just ship it to their beach house?"

"Unless we find time to see them before we leave."

"Wait, _leave?_" Richie balked, swapping his gaze rapidly between the two adults who seemed just as content to ignore him right now as he had been to ignore _them_ a few moments ago.

"Are we still planning for the twenty-third?" Tessa asked her lover, either ignorant of or willfully ignoring the increasingly antsy teenager sitting across from her.

"Unless you wanted to go earlier, but I need to be back by the twenty-ninth to get ready for the New Year's charity auction."

"Where are you going?" Richie asked, desperation elevating his voice half an octave.

"Oh, you remember, Richie," Tessa addressed him at last. "We have Christmas at the cabin every year."

The bottom suddenly dropped out of Richie's stomach. "The cabin," half question, half deadpan. That's when it hit him—he _did_ remember. Mac and Tessa have gone to the cabin on the Island for every Christmas they've spent in the States. Duncan built it over a hundred years ago. It was the perfect getaway—built on holy ground and in the middle of nowhere. For an immortal, there was no better retreat, and for a couple, there was nothing more romantic.

"So are we shooting for the twenty-third?" Duncan effectively caught Richie's attention again.

Tessa nodded. "If you like. I have my hair appointment the twenty-first, but I'm clear after that, at least until the exposition in January."

"When do you need to start planning that?"

"Oh, the hall is already booked. The final details can easily wait until we get back."

"So the twenty-third it is then," Duncan declared. "You'd better start packing now," he teased. Tessa shot him a glare for his trouble.

"The twenty-third until when?" Richie asked, interrupting the adults again. He managed to keep his voice steady this time, but he avoided making direct eye contact with either of them. Instead he focused on cutting his ham into smaller pieces.

"Well I need to be back by the twenty-ninth," Duncan answered, "but not until later that afternoon."

"We could leave that morning then," Tessa offered.

Duncan nodded. "Hopefully it'll be done snowing."

Richie looked up then, from the ham and mashed potato sculpture on his plate. "May I be excused?" he asked, this time daring to meet Duncan's eyes.

Duncan blinked. If Richie needed to leave the table before dinner was over he usually just excused himself with a simple explanation and a polite thank-you to whoever cooked that night. This was the first time he'd ever asked.

"Yeah, sure Rich," Duncan answered, even as he looked to Tessa for guidance. Alas, the Frenchwoman was just as bewildered as he was.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked the teen.

"Fine," Richie assured her, answering just a little too defensively, his voice falling just a little too flatly to be readily believed. "Just tired."

"Well, if you're sure," Tessa replied, more to fight off the sudden silence than to continue the conversation.

Richie nodded distractedly and stood from the table. He then turned around and walked nonchalantly down the hall, entered his room, and gently pulled the door shut behind him. The click of the latch echoed softly in the silent dining area.

"What was that about?" Tessa asked Duncan once the silence settled around them again.

Duncan shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

* * *

Back in his room, Richie made his way back to his bed and flopped down heavily. The mattress jounced from the weight and the bed frame creaked in protest, but Richie ignored them as he grabbed his pillow and curled into the fetal position. He clutched the pillow tightly to his stomach as reality coiled itself around his insides and formed painful knots. 

Mac and Tessa were going to the Island for Christmas. He'd be left alone.

In the eighteen years of Richie's life as a ward of the state of Washington, he'd suffered through many a rotten Christmas. The Christmas he spent at the orphanage, for instance, so soon after Emily died. Then there were the times where some foster father had a bit too much Christmas cheer and took it out on whoever got in the way, but those were rare occurrences. No, most often his Christmases consisted of overcrowded holiday parties where stuffy relatives were so casually cruel to the random interloper, and where he was forced to watch foster siblings open gifts of much higher quality than what he was given. Oh a few of them were nice, like the Christmas he spent with Sophie and Maria Thompkins, but mostly Richie had thought of Christmas as something to be endured, not celebrated.

Except for those few, precious times when he was left alone.

Some years the applicable foster family would go away and leave him home by himself, and in time Richie grew to associate a lonely Christmas with a safe Christmas. He could drink the last of the eggnog before it went bad, and stay up watching Christmas Specials on TV until the church bells chimed out midnight mass. Being left alone, with no expectations hanging over his head and no need to pretend that he didn't notice the prejudice against him, where he could keep his own company and not worry about drunken foster fathers or haughty grandmothers—_those_ were the Christmases he wished for each year growing up, because ones like those with the Thompkins family were so rare that he didn't dare raise his hopes that high.

This year, it seemed like he would get his wish. Mac and Tessa were going to the Island, like they always did. He'd be left alone, like he'd always wanted. The part of Richie's mind that governed his defense mechanisms was screaming at him to be thankful, but its voice must have gone soft from lack of use these past few months. What else could account for the sudden wetness on his cheeks?

The rest of his mind hated how an ideal once so highly coveted could bring him so much pain. It couldn't have been because of their earlier misconceptions, could it?

_Could it?_

Richie clung more tightly to his pillow.


	3. And There Are Worse Places to Be

"Do you think he's taken ill?" Tessa asked Duncan as they cleared the table.

Duncan frowned slightly. "I hope not."

"I kept warning him to dress appropriately. It would be just awful if he were sick for Christmas."

"He seemed fine earlier," Duncan pointed out.

"We both know that doesn't mean anything. Besides, he could have been faking."

Duncan blinked. "Faking sick?"

"Faking how well he felt!" Tessa corrected sharply. "No one wants to be sick for the holidays, especially since we're going away. Being cooped up at the cabin is no fun when you're not feeling well."

"But Richie didn't even _remember_ about the cabin."

Now it was Tessa's turn to frown.

"Why would he keep it from us then?" Duncan continued. "Since he obviously wasn't afraid of missing out on something."

Tessa had been scrubbing a pot in the sink. Now her hands stilled. She looked up and seemed to stare into space for a moment, her hands still submerged in dishwater. "He's done it before," she softly reminded.

It only took a moment for Duncan to grasp her meaning. When he did, he cursed. In Gaelic. "That was different. Richie wasn't living here then. He had no reason to believe we cared about him."

Her back was still facing him, but Duncan saw the look of guilt that washed over Tessa's face in her reflection in the window above the sink.

"_You _cared about him, Duncan," she reminded him pointedly. "I was merely tolerant."

Duncan tongued his cheek, not certain what he could say to that. "It's a moot point," he said at length, albeit gently. "Richie grew on you eventually."

Tessa released a long-suffering sigh. She took her hands from the sink at last and braced them against the lip of the counter. Duncan walked up and snaked his arms around her.

"And that was a long time ago."

"It was barely two months ago, Duncan." Indeed, so much had happened since then that she had trouble remembering herself sometimes.

Duncan hung his head and wound up resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Richie knows we care about him," he reassured her, perhaps sounding more convinced than his sudden paranoia allowed him to be.

"I don't like the thought of him keeping an illness from us. It's dangerous."

Duncan tightened his hug momentarily, and for the first time their eyes met through the reflected glass. "Don't you think you're overreacting, just a bit?"

Tessa knew that she got him thinking, though he was doing his best to hide it for her sake. At last she sighed, and the tension seemed to recede like a deflating balloon. "Probably," she admitted at length. "I just…" Her words trailed as she allowed her hands to come up and secure Duncan's arms. He held her closely and for a moment and Tessa basked in the warmth of his embrace.

"Just what?" Duncan asked, his voice gentle with concern.

"I want Richie to have a good Christmas," Tessa confessed. "He deserves at least that much."

"Yes he does," Duncan hedged, somehow sounding both agreeable and hesitant.

"But?"

"But… one of the best Christmases I ever had… was the first one I spent with Connor. We were living in a one-room shack with a leaky roof, floor pallets for bedding and a rickety table as the only furniture — we'd already broken up the chairs for firewood. Dinner consisted of cold, leftover mutton and we spent the entire night wrapped in skins for warmth, horribly butchering what few hymns we could remember."

Tessa playfully nudged back into him with her hip. "You actually had hymns back then?"

"Yes, young lady, we did," Duncan replied in a mock-nagging tone as he accepted her ribbing. Then he sobered some. "But don't change the subject."

He felt Tessa stiffen momentarily in his arms — suddenly vulnerable for having been found out so easily — but she relaxed after a moment.

"You're trying to tell me that happiness can't be bought," she presumed, resigned. "Because I've made such a fuss over Richie and his spending limit."

Duncan simpered slightly. "Not exactly," he corrected, trying for delicacy. "I was actually going for how half the time we don't even _know_ what would make us happy, so trying to predict what would make others happy is, well, a crapshoot at best."

Tessa frowned. "You're telling me I try too hard?"

"I'm telling you you worry too much. This is going to be a very different Christmas — for all of us. And as much as I know Richie's looking forward to it… he's bound to be a bit apprehensive about it, too."

Tessa sighed. "I wish he wouldn't be. I mean, we managed to get through Thanksgiving, didn't we?"

Duncan had to laugh at the memory. The mashed potatoes and apple pie were easy, but Tessa had never stuffed a turkey before, and she refused to accept that cranberry sauce — wobbling on a plate in the perfect shape of a can — was the American delicacy Richie insisted it was. The immortal Scot and the French artist had never bothered with the American holiday before except as an excuse to close the store, but they had indulged the teenager for his sake.

"We did," Duncan agreed. "Though it wasn't without its little adventures."

Tessa's smirk melted into serenity. "True…"

"I think we just need to let Richie find his own way with this," Duncan continued. "Whatever his Christmases have been like in the past… this is all new to him right now. And knowing Richie, he still probably feels like he's intruding."

"So what do we do, Duncan? I mean, it's going to be awkward for us too."

"And Richie knows that. At least, I think he does."

"So…?"

"So we have Christmas," Duncan declared. "It'll just be different from what we're used to."

"That isn't very helpful," Tessa reproached him, though she was smirking slightly.

Duncan shrugged. "We just have to play it by ear. What else can we do?"

Tessa suddenly frowned in thought. "Well, we can check on Richie for one thing. I want to make sure he really isn't getting sick."

"I'll do it," Duncan offered. "He mentioned earlier that he wanted to talk to me anyway."

Tessa's frown turned pensive. "Oh? What about?"

"Angie's Christmas gift I think. He wants to run an idea by me."

"One gentleman to another?"

"Probably. But if he doesn't have a fever or some God-awful rash—"

"You'll be back to gloat?"

"I _never_ gloat," Duncan mock-assured with sarcastic seriousness.

"No, never," Tessa agreed in that same tone. Then she was watching as her lover's reflection retreated from the window. With a belated sigh, Tessa tried to shove aside her worry and return to washing dishes.

* * *

There was a knock on his door.

_"Richie?"_

Duncan's voice. That's when Richie remembered he had asked to speak to the Highlander about borrowing the T-bird as part of Angie's gift. He quickly threw his pillow back to the head of his bed and rearranged himself properly under the covers. He tried to be as silent as possible, but he was fairly sure that Mac heard him anyway.

The knock came again, just a little louder.

_"Richie, it's Duncan."_

"Freakin' _duh,_" the teen murmured under his breath as he made sure there were no tear tracks marring his cheeks. Then he called out, as sleepily as possible: "Mmm_yeah_? Whasit?"

Duncan took that as permission to enter and opened the door, yet when he saw that Richie was in bed he didn't turn on the light. "Are you feeling alright?" The sight of the teen in bed did much to feed the grain of worry that Tessa's observations had planted.

"Hunh?" Richie hammed it up by adding a slightly glazed and vacant look to his eyes — which hopefully covered any stray redness that lingered there.

Duncan entered a bit farther. "It's not even eight o'clock," he pointed out.

"Ungh?" Richie 'blearily' glanced at his clock. "Yeah," he admitted, blinking and palming a hand across his face. "Just tired."

"Are you sure?"

"It was a long day."

Duncan frowned. "Tessa told me what happened at the mall…"

Richie involuntarily winced. On top of all else, the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of that particular blunder. "Yeah. Don't sweat it though," he dismissed, and he no longer had to actively affect an exhausted tone.

"As long as you weren't hurt. Tessa said you were manhandled rather roughly."

"Eh, it's no big," Richie deflected, shrugging. "I know how it must'a looked to the guard."

"Still…" Duncan wasn't satisfied. "You're sure you're ok?"

"Yes, Mac," Richie reassured with a weary smile. Somehow the Highlander's concern was soothing tonight instead of chaffing like he'd expected. "I'm just tired.

"Well, if you're sure..." Duncan didn't sound truly convinced, but at least he was convinced enough to let it lie. But then he changed the subject. "Wasn't there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

Without warning, Richie's enforced calm threaded itself back into painful knots inside his stomach. He was going to ask to borrow the T-bird, for Angie. The T-bird, which Mac has always at least _considered_ letting him borrow, like when his bike was in the shop last month or when he volunteered to do the grocery shopping. The T-bird… which was now going to be at the Island the day before he needed it, as Mac always drove the long drives. Which meant only one thing: Richie would have to ask Tessa to borrow her Mercedes. Tessa's beautiful, pristine, white vintage Mercedes convertible that he's hadn't yet been allowed to drive, not even supervised.

Tessa, who had such low opinions of him right now but — bless her heart — was still too kind and considerate to share them.

"Y-yeah," Richie stammered, his tongue flying free of his mind's control. Then the knot constricted again, making him wince. "But… uh… not anymore."

Duncan was curious — and concerned. "Not anymore?" he asked, almost certain that the lad was hiding something.

"I wanted to talk to you about Angie's gift," Richie explained, finally sounding more like himself again. "But I just realized that what I had in mind won't work, so…" He punctuated the explanation with a shrug.

Duncan nodded, almost absently. This part, at least, he sensed was true, but he still felt that there was much more going on here than a simple reconsideration. "Back to the drawing board?"

Richie grinned sheepishly, but partially in relief. "Yeah. I'll come up with something though. I'm going shopping again tomorrow."

"Are you working in the store tomorrow?"

"I'm still opening, if that's what you mean," Richie answered, a bit defensively. "I wasn't going to go until you guys relieved me."

"Of course," Duncan reassured, choosing to ignore Richie's tone. "I have some errands to run in the morning but I should be back by lunchtime."

"Ok," Richie acquiesced. "Works."

Duncan nodded. "Well, I'll let you get some sleep. Goodnight, Richie."

"Night, Mac."

When at last the Highlander closed the door behind his exit Richie allowed himself an audible sigh of relief before flopping down onto his back. Immediately he draped an arm across his eyes and inhaled a slow, measured breath. He held it for a moment and then released it, the exhale a deflating, softly groaning sigh. Then he threw his arm off his face and allowed it to flop down on the bed outstretched at his side. Thus he lay, limbs completely outstretched, staring into the darkness above him.

All too soon, Richie's eyes adjusted back to the moderate darkness now that light was no longer streaming in through his opened door. The thin strip of light shining under the closed door had faded to grayness as someone must have killed the hallway light. A sickly shimmer of neon green spewed forth from the display of the clock-radio, but wasn't strong enough to survive the meager glow of soft silvered amber that streamed around the slats in the Venetian blinds. These harsh, grating contrasts of illumination fought for supremacy, their apathetic war casting odd and dancing shadows in the gulf between them; and in that wasteland Richie lay, wide awake and thinking.

* * *

Mourning dawned pale and gray, and Richie was downstairs in the store by seven thirty, getting ready to open. He made sure the register was prepped and ready, that the credit card scanner was working properly, that the door to Mac's office was locked (as it always was whenever the Highlander was away), and that every item was in its proper place.

The glitch for today: receipt paper. They were almost out. There were still a few minutes left before opening, so Richie made a beeline for the storeroom—

—And stopped as soon as he entered Tessa's workshop. The Frenchwoman was already up and slaving away at her birthday present for Duncan.

"Good morning, Richie."

"Ah, morning Tess," Richie stammered. "I didn't think you'd be up."

"This thing's almost finished; I want to get it done," Tessa explained as she placed drop-cloths onto the floor. "And besides, it's easier to work when Duncan isn't here. Help me with this?"

Tessa ripped a dustcover off of what was going to be Duncan's new wardrobe. She'd had it specially handcrafted and shipped to the store in pieces to disguise what it was. Richie had gotten to help her assemble it to ensure that all the parts fit and then to disassemble it again so that the naked wood could be stained. The artist had stained it herself, a red oak splashed with mahogany, giving the wardrobe a rustic, slightly burnt look. Richie had approved wholeheartedly, and had helped her reassemble the pieces once the stain had dried—minus the doors, of course. The bowed doors were overly thick on purpose, and these Tessa set aside. As soon as her sculpture for the bicentennial committee was completed she set to work carving Celtic knots into their faces. Each door had a had a giant knot, slightly off center, that spread out in entangling circles like tree roots before fading back into the wood. Despite her misgivings, Richie had honestly told Tessa that it was some of her very best work.

Now it seemed that the artist was finally satisfied, and was time for the doors to be stained. Tessa ripped the dustcover away to reveal the mostly-complete wardrobe, with its two doors resting against the framework, their backs and sides already stained. Richie walked over and grabbed one door — they were heavier than they looked — and Tessa grabbed the other. Then both doors were gently placed atop the drop-cloths.

"Thanks."

"No problem, Tess."

They smiled slightly, knowingly, together for a moment, and for a moment Richie forgot that anything had ever become awkward between them.

_That's because it **hasn't**_,_ dipshit! She doesn't know you heard her._

"Are you opening the store?"

Richie blinked, snapping back to the present. "Yep. Just passing through; gotta grab receipt paper."

"Duncan said that you were going shopping again afterwards?"

Richie nodded. "Hopefully I'll be able to find something this time."

"Good luck."

"You too."

And Tessa went over to a shelf to grab the stain, and Richie disappeared into the storeroom.

* * *

The morning was relatively quiet. Even though the Christmas rush brought in additional customers, most of them were simply browsers and the ones who bought things didn't buy anything outrageously expensive. Around eleven Tessa came back through the door into the store. She had stain streaking her work clothes in a few new places, as well as a delicious stripe down one arm. The pre-lunchtime lull had just started and there weren't any customers at that moment.

"Finished?" Richie asked her, smiling slightly at her appearance.

Tessa nodded. "For now. I have the colors blended and the base coats are on. I'll do the finishing touches tomorrow after it dries."

"Cutting it close, aren't we?"

"I still have two days until Duncan's birthday," Tessa reminded him. "It won't be wrapped or anything, but…"

"He's gonna love it Tess," Richie said sincerely. His own gift for the Highlander was already packaged and wrapped and was currently hiding under his bed. It wasn't much — matching MacLeod tartan cufflinks he'd ordered from a catalogue back in November. He knew his gift would be overshadowed by Tessa's, but he was fine with that.

"I hope you're right," Tessa replied, sighing worriedly in the process, but before Richie could think of anything with which to reassure her she shook her head and dismissed her angst. "I'm going to go clean up."

Richie nodded and Tessa vanished up the stairs into the loft, just as a customer came in.

* * *

True to his word, Duncan came back an hour later, laden with shopping bags. Richie was busy with a customer and so could only spare him a passing glance as the Highlander nodded in his direction before continuing on up the stairs.

The customer Richie was helping — a little old lady with more money than God — was asking questions about the histories of just about every antique in the store. A good deal of them Richie could recount off the top of his head — you work in an antique store long enough (with a decent immortal storyteller) and you pick up certain things. What Richie didn't know or couldn't remember he looked up in the large inventory binder behind the front counter.

When the lady expressed an interest in the Incan ceremonial mask however, Richie didn't need any help at all.

* * *

Duncan entered the loft and went straight to the table. "Hi Tess," he greeted his lover who was seated there, but he didn't pay her much thought. He only paused long enough to drop off a bag of groceries before he took the rest of his bags into their bedroom. He had last-minute gifts to hide until they could be wrapped. After a few minutes of finding hiding places he returned to the kitchen to put away those groceries — dinner for this night and the next.

That's when he noticed that Tessa was despondently staring at the emptied contents of her purse.

"Something the matter?" he asked her as he put meat in the freezer.

"Do you remember how I was going to have a jeweler fix the clasp on my broach?" Tessa asked him in return.

"Didn't you say it wasn't closing properly?"

"It wasn't," Tessa verified, "so I was going to stop by a jeweler when I was out with Richie yesterday to have it fixed, only I forgot about it with everything that happened."

"And?" Duncan prompted, rightly guessing there was more to the story that had Tessa so upset.

"And when my purse broke yesterday everything spilled everywhere. I managed to gather everything up, but now the broach is missing stones. I thought they might have come loose inside my purse, but they didn't."

Duncan frowned and picked up the broach, its large size reflecting the style of a forgotten era. It was a simple design, a white rose of painted gold speckled with three dewdrops. It was an antique passed down from Tessa's great grandmother and sure enough, the three dewdrop stones were missing.

"Look at that…" Duncan breathed, inspecting the damage. "I'm sure we could get new stones for it."

"I know," Tessa agreed tiredly. "It just makes me angry."

"Don't worry about it," Duncan soothed as he dropped a hand on Tessa shoulder and stooped to kiss the top of her head. "We'll take care of as soon as we get back. I promise.

Tessa sighed in acceptance. "_D'accord._"

Then she spotted Richie, who was standing at the edge of the dining area. Duncan soon followed her gaze.

"Uh, there's a little old lady downstairs who wants to buy the Incan mask," Richie explained his reason for being there.

Duncan was slightly taken aback, but recovered quickly. The more expensive items usually didn't sell during the Christmas season, what with everyone too preoccupied buying gifts.

"Alright, Rich. I'll take care of it. You can go do your shopping."

Richie grinned. "Thanks, Mac."

Tessa smirked at the teenager as he disappeared back into his room. Then she shared a chaste kiss with Duncan before he left for the store. Alone again, Tessa began reassembling her purse.

* * *

Once in his room, Richie leaned back into his shut door with a sigh of relief. He may have to rethink his gift idea for Angie, but now he knew exactly what he could get for Tessa. If she was going to wait until after the holidays to fix her broach, well, Richie could do it for Christmas! He made sure to take his time in retrieving his spending money from his sock drawer, wanting to wait until Tessa had already returned the broach to her jewelry box so that he could take it without her noticing. With any luck, she wouldn't check for it before she and Duncan left for the Island.

Eventually Richie tentatively stuck his head out of his room. He looked across the hall and saw that Tessa wasn't in the master bedroom, and then he looked down the hall into the living room, listening for sounds of her.

All was quiet.

_She must be downstairs with Mac…_

Richie crept into the bedroom and found Tessa's jewelry box atop her dresser. It was a large box with two stacked drawers and a top that opened like a chest. Richie opened the top with care and found the broach. Now able to see the damage firsthand, Richie silently cursed the security guard that made him responsible for ripping the strap of Tessa's purse. The Frenchwoman _loved_ this broach; it was a family heirloom.

Richie gingerly slipped the broach into a sock and then stuffed that sock into his fleece pocket. Sure wearing a fleece over his sweatshirt might be a bit redundant with his jacket on top, but the fleece pocket would therefore be the most secure place to carry the broach as he was going to have to take his bike.

When he made it downstairs, Richie saw Tessa standing behind the front counter reading a magazine. Duncan was in his office, busy with the phone. The mask was still there, but there was a 'sold' sign blatantly visible on the display case.

"I'm gone," Richie waved to Tessa as he made his way across the store to the workshop door.

"Will you be home for dinner?" Tessa called after him. "Duncan is grilling steaks."

Richie paused. Steak sounded good. "If not I'll call," he answered. "Bye."

Tessa watched him go, then returned her attention to her magazine. She was still focused on the same paragraph when Duncan came out of his office, ten minutes later.

"The transfer went through," he announced.

"Hmm?" Tessa looked up, distracted.

"The account transfer," Duncan clarified. "From Mrs. Dubois."

Tessa smiled faintly. "Oh. That's good." And she went back to reading.

Duncan frowned. "There's something on your mind."

"Hmm?" Tessa looked up again. "What makes you say that?"

"Because I know you," Duncan answered, unable to help the grin.

"It was my great grandmother's broach, Duncan," Tessa confessed at length. "My grandmother gave it to me when I was thirteen. I can't believe I broke it."

"_You_ didn't break it," Duncan clarified. "Besides, it was over eighty years old. Sometimes that happens to antique jewelry."

"I know," Tessa admitted on the tails of a sigh. "But I noticed the clasp loosening weeks ago. I should have taken it to get fixed straight away."

"And we _will _get it fixed, right after the holidays," Duncan promised, then paused. "Or before, if it means that much to you."

"No, that's alright, Duncan. Jewelry stores are going to be so busy before Christmas they probably won't be able to get around to it anyway. It can wait."

Duncan frowned again. "Come on, Tess, what's bothering you — really?"

"Nothing," Tessa dismissed, but the look of innocence on her face was a little too forced.

Duncan just continued his expectant gaze.

Finally the Frenchwoman sighed again, this time in defeat. She bowed her head slightly in resignation and took a moment before answering. "Papa called, while you were out. They… they want me home for Christmas."

Duncan nodded in a controlled measure, his jaw clenching involuntarily, but he quickly forced himself to relax. "And?"

"They want _me_ home Duncan," Tessa clarified. "Not us."

Duncan pursed his lips. He knew that now wasn't the time to interject his opinion — however strong it might be. Tessa's been on the outs with her family ever since they moved to Seacouver, but it was Duncan whom they disapproved of outright. Their precious little girl was living in sin six thousand miles away, and it was entirely his fault. Tessa loved him enough to stay with him, but that didn't make her estrangement from her family any easier to take.

Which explained how hard she was taking what happened to her broach.

"What did you say?" he asked, making sure he kept his voice completely neutral.

Tessa softly snorted a laugh. "You mean what _didn't_ I say?"

Duncan smirked, and the gesture encouraged a small smile to grace Tessa's lips as well.

"My family will never accept us," she stated with soft assurance. "You'd think, after nine years, it wouldn't bother me so much."

An old ache flared anew in Duncan's chest. He knew exactly how she felt. When he spoke, his voice was unusually thick. "The last words my father ever said to me, he renounced me as his son. It's been… three hundred and seventy years since then."

"Has it gotten any easier?" Tessa asked, her voice colored with doubt.

"The wounds never go away," Duncan confessed. "You just… get better at ignoring them."

"And for those of us who don't have four hundred years?" There was a palpable bitterness to Tessa's voice, and Duncan flinched. "I'm sorry," she apologized, swiftly yet heavily. She closed her eyes with another sigh. "I just…"

Duncan walked around the counter and pulled his lover into his arms. Tessa was stiff at first, but soon melted into the embrace.

"Tell me you love me, Duncan," Tessa requested, her voice small.

"I love you," Duncan quickly and sincerely assured her.

Tessa clung all the more tightly to him. "Promise?"

"I promise."

Tessa released a shuddering exhale, and Duncan felt her breath warm the soft flesh of his neck as she buried her head in the crook between his shoulder and chin.

"Good," she said simply, savoring the soft, reassuring scent of his cologne.

There they stayed, lost in the moment of each other, until the door chimed a new customer's entrance; yet even in parting, their fingers lingered and drifted together into consensual knots.

"Can we help you?"


	4. He's Making a List

Richie fought his way through holiday traffic all the way to the mall. He figured that the best place find a jeweler capable of repairing Tessa's broach was in one of the fancier jewelry stores, and as far as he knew, they didn't come much fancier than the one Tessa had dragged him into the other day.

Traffic simply crawled along the main thoroughfares, and the back roads were crowded as well. It was still the middle of lunch hour, and the work-a-day crowd all seemed to want to forego a meal in exchange for an hour's shopping time. For most of them, it was the only time they could buy presents for their spouses and children without being discovered. This meant that the mall was going to be jam-packed, but on the upside, with everyone being in such a hurry to get back to work, the lines would move fairly quickly.

Richie surmised that his worst hassle would be in getting there and finding a parking space, but the joys of having a motorcycle include being able to squeeze into spaces everyone else had to pass up. There was always some yutz in a four-by-four straddling the hash mark and eating up two spaces, and while such inconsiderate drivers were the scourge of the sedan-driving world they were a motorcyclist's blessing.

Today's blessing came in the form of a full-sized van in the second row of one of the larger parking lots, right near the Sears entrance. Richie was all smiles as he felt for the broach once last time before jamming his kickstand into place and heading inside. He was relieved when he felt the reassuring weight at the bottom of his fleece pocket, just as he was all the previous times he checked it: at every red light, stop sign, and intersection between the antique store and the mall.

Once inside, Richie took stock of his location. He'd just entered into the tools section of Sears, which mean that the jewelry store he was looking for was up a level and halfway down the mall's main aisle. Richie kept his hands in his jacket pockets — and therefore pressed squarely against his fleece pockets — as he made a beeline for the escalators.

The jewelry store wasn't overly crowded, but there were several browsers being openly surveyed by a large man in a three-piece suit and a nametag stationed at the doorway, and several more being serviced by the two attendants behind the counter. Richie took a glance at the display cases as he walked by them and paused in front of the section that displayed the most expensive pins and broaches. He figured that if there was any sense of professional order to this place then the attendant who knew the most about broaches would be the one offering to help him, and that was the person he needed to talk to. After all, it worked for department stores.

Seconds ticked into minutes but Richie waited patiently. The MacLeod-and-Noel crash course in high-brow etiquette had served him well, and he knew that the best way to ingratiate himself to people who routinely trade in items worth more than half his old neighborhood's yearly income was through extreme politeness touched with a few dabs of innocence and undercut by a very slight inferiority complex. Finally though a middle-aged man bought a diamond necklace that would have made Elizabeth Taylor blush, and after the purchase was rung up, the attendant who served him approached Richie.

"Can I help you find anything?"

"Uh, actually, I was wondering if you do repairs," Richie answered rather timidly.

The attendant blinked. "Repairs?"

"Well I have this broach," Richie explained. "It's a family heirloom, but it's in pretty bad shape — the clasp is loose, and it needs some stones replaced."

The attendant seemed to frown at him, and Richie's guarded expression softened to match it.

"We could probably repair the clasp," she said, "but we don't deal in loose stones. If you bought them from somewhere else though, we might be able to set them."

Richie let the disappointment wash over him for a moment while he nodded. "Well, do you know anybody who sells gemstones them?"

"None of the stores in this mall," the attendant answered definitively. "It has to do with the insurance."

Richie had to will himself not to frown too deeply. "Is there any place you can recommend?"

The attendant shook her head. "Just the Diamond Mart, but they're pretty exclusive. If this is for a gift you most likely wouldn't get in before the holiday. Your best bet would probably be to grab the yellow pages and call around the local jewelry stores."

Richie gave a slow nod as he swallowed the rest of his disappointment. This trip to the mall turned out to be one giant waste of time. "Right. Thanks anyway."

Richie left the jewelry store with a great deal less enthusiasm than whence he came. He lazily picked his way through the tide of shoppers on the second level instead of skillfully darting around them. Where determination had once fueled him, listlessness had since replaced it. He didn't know of any jewelry stores outside the mall — at least, any jewelry stores where he wouldn't be recognized instantly and then chased from the premises; a throwback to his brief yet all too recent career as a thief.

As he meandered his way back through the mall, Richie's mind began to wander. If he couldn't get the broach repaired he'd need to come up with something else to get Tessa for Christmas, and he still had to get Mac something, too. Richie mentally frowned when he tried to decide which of them was harder to shop for, but in the end he chose Tessa if only for the fact that he was woefully inexperienced at shopping for girls. Mac wasn't much easier though. The guy had everything, and what he didn't have he either didn't want, or had the money to go buy for himself. That's what had sent Richie to the catalogs for the man's birthday present, as the realms of the unique and the obscure seemed to be the best bet. Unfortunately it was now too close to Christmas for anything he ordered from a catalog to arrive beforehand. Richie cursed himself for not thinking of that sooner.

Richie moped as he made his way back through Sears. He'd have to head back to the loft and check the phonebook for jewelry stores, which would mean he'd have to go out again after that. Maybe he could put that time to good use and just ask the Highlander what he wanted for Christmas? As much as Richie hated to copout like that, at this point he really didn't see any other options. Of course, Mac was probably the type to tell someone that he needed socks and hair ties, but Richie was _not_ about to spend a few hundred fixing Tessa's broach and then only a few tens buying Mac some necessities.

As Richie rounded the corner into the tools department he couldn't help the amused thought that Tessa — as a sculptor — had a greater use for power tools than the Highlander would, so that one particular stereotype wouldn't help him. Actually, come to think of it, very few stereotypes applied to MacLeod. He liked to keep in shape (obviously) but he wasn't a sports enthusiast; he liked working with his hands but didn't have a lust for power tools — and even if he did, Tessa's workshop had more than enough to sate him; he liked classic cars, but preferred the simplistic and understated so accessorizing would be a wasted effort. Duncan was just one of those people you couldn't hope to shop for if you didn't know them well, and as Richie kept drawing blanks as he raked his brain for ideas, he was forced to admit that maybe he didn't know the Highlander as well as he had thought.

Richie made his way across the parking lot musing on his friend and employer, trying to come up with some hint as to what he could get the man. It would have been easier if Mac's birthday wasn't so close at hand. Finding those cufflinks had been a stroke of genius (and pure luck), but now Richie had to come up with another gift without falling back on the theme of Mac's heritage. So what did that leave? The guy liked to read, but didn't really go in for popular fiction or ascribe to any particular genre. He liked antiques, but trying to buy him one would have probably cost more than his entire holiday savings — not to mention that it would have made about as much sense as building a sandbox in the desert. The man didn't even have any real hobbies. He liked to run, sure, but other than a decent pair of shoes Richie had no idea what you could get for a runner. He liked to cook, but the loft kitchen was already so well stocked that it could make an outlet store jealous. The only thing it _didn't_ have was a grill, and Mac kept one on the roof for—

Richie didn't bother to finish the thought. He'd already turned around and was sprinting back inside. He cornered a salesman not a minute later.

"Talk to me about grills."

"What do you want to know?" the salesman asked, sounding friendly enough if a bit harried.

"I want to buy one for a friend of mine but I want to make sure I get the right one."

"That depends on what you're looking for," the salesman informed him. "It's really a matter of preference."

"What are my options?"

The salesman took a moment to size Richie up. "You don't know a thing about grilling, do you," he surmised.

Richie shook his head. "Not a thing."

The salesman smiled only slightly as he nodded. "Right. Well the first thing you need to remember is that there are two main schools of grilling: gas and charcoal."

"My friend has a charcoal grill," Richie interjected. "But it's old, small, kinda rusty, and sometimes won't stay lit."

"Charcoal is good for portability," the salesman explained. "If you do a lot of camping or RVing, or if you go tailgating. You just need some charcoal, lighter fluid, and a match and you're good to go."

Richie had to laugh. "My friend lives in the city. He keeps the grill on his roof and I don't think it's moved since he bought the place."

"Then you might want to look into gas," said the salesman. "They run bigger and heavier — and more expensive — but since they're not designed with portability in mind they can get pretty sophisticated."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, let me show you."

The salesmen took Richie on a tour of the grill section. Some looked like charcoal grills outfitted for a propane tank while others went so far as to look like stoves, with burners next to the grill rack. Some had two or even three racks and others had more counter space than his old apartment. Needless to say, Richie felt a little overwhelmed.

"Uh, I don't think he'd want anything that fancy," Richie admitted. The piece of hardware in front of him cost more than he spent on his bike and looked like it should have 'space travel' listed among its capabilities.

"Alright, we'll start simple. What does your friend like to cook?"

_Everything!_ Richie wanted to exclaim. "He usually just grills steaks and sometimes fish," he said instead. "Everything else he cooks inside."

"Then you're probably not going to need something with burners," the salesman assessed, and he led Richie back down the aisle towards the smaller, less intimidating grills. "One of these perhaps?"

Richie took his time reading the ID cards for the grills in front of him while the salesman went on explaining about things like 'heat distribution' and 'temperature control.' Towards the end he saw one that boasted greater durability and rust resistance, but Richie had dropped out of high school before ever passing chemistry so he had no idea what zinc had to do with that — but it was the only grill in the lineup that had it.

"What about this one?"

"That one? Great value for the money. Not as large as some of the others, doesn't have as much counter space, but it's a study little grill — comes with a three year warranty you can opt up to ten. We've sold quite a few of them this year."

Richie nodded as he studied the darkened stainless steel contraption in front of him. It was on sale, and with the extended warranty the total would come to about two hundred and seventy dollars. It was perfect.

"I'll take it."

Ten minutes later and Richie was making his way out of Sears with a laden shopping bag in his hand and the receipt for a brand new grill folded into his wallet. Since he couldn't possibly take the grill home with him he arranged for delivery, and the store had offered the service at a discounted rate as long as he was willing to wait until after New Year's. The grill was slated to arrive at the loft between the second and seventh of January, but since it was a Christmas gift Richie swiped a sale catalogue from a stand by the register and — with permission — carefully tore out a picture of the grill he'd bought (strategically missing the price of course). This he intended to put in a card so that MacLeod would have proof that his gift was forthcoming. On a whim Richie decided to add the grill cover not because it was practical but rather so that Mac would have something more substantial than a card to open Christmas day.

Richie actually spent more time shopping for an appropriate card for the Highlander than he did in selecting a grill, but in the end he walked out of the mall's drug store a happy customer. He borrowed a pen at the gift wrapping stand and signed the card, then he took the add clipping from his wallet and placed it inside before sliding the card into the envelope and licking it sealed. Lastly he opened the grill cover's box and slid the card inside. The gift wrappers were kind enough to reseal the box with packing tape before wrapping it up. He didn't much care for the paper selection and allowed the attendant to choose for him. In the end he walked away with a box wrapped in offensively bright gold foil secured with gold-frilled ribbons and a large gold bow. Tacky? Perhaps, but at least he'd be able to get the gift home without worrying about Mac seeing it.

When at last he pulled out of the parking lot, Richie decided against heading straight back to the antique store. Instead he decided on a more winding path, not caring about the traffic or the almost-freezing December drizzle that had started somewhere along Washington Avenue. This way took him through the touristy sections of downtown, known for wide variety of restaurants and quaint little mom and pop stores. The prospect of finding a jewelry store here far outweighed the hassle of trying to navigate through holiday traffic.

And Richie's faith was soon rewarded.

Richie slid his bike between two parallel-parked cars and up onto the sidewalk. There he chained it to the parking meter and hoped to God that he wouldn't be gone long enough for a cop or meter maid to notice. His gift for Duncan was secure in his saddlebag and was hopefully hidden enough in the bag's bulk that it wasn't immediately obvious to curious eyes. _Once a thief_, Richie mused with a slight headshake as he gave the bag a final appraisal before heading into the jewelry store.

Fortunately this particular jewelry store was empty. The bell above the door marked Richie's entrance and a clerk materialized through a curtain that separated the small storefront from whatever lay beyond — an office maybe? Richie couldn't be sure. He was too busy studying the stunted, bespectacled man who hobbled over to the long glass display case. He stalked forward with a bit of a limp and braced two gnarled hands on the top of the display before looking up to greet his latest customer.

"May I help you?" the man asked in a gruff voice, but the gaze he leveled on Richie was keen and piercing. The teen faltered slightly but recovered quickly enough; he was on a mission after all, and for once (in this section of town anyway), one of honorable intentions.

"Yeah, actually," Richie answered blithely. "Do you do repairs?"

The steely gaze grew sharper, if that were possible. "What kind of repairs?"

Richie swiftly snaked a hand up under his jacket and reached his fleece pocket. He withdrew the sock that held Tessa's broach and approached the display case. The broach slid out after a subtle jounce.

"Hmm…" The jeweler seemed to ponder it for a weighted moment before he actually picked it up. Then he removed his glasses and held a magnifying monocle up to one eye. "Hmm…" And he pondered some more.

Richie nervously shifted his weight on the balls of his feet and fought off fleeting thoughts that the old man could have been MacLeod's grandfather.

"That depends on what you want done," the jeweler declared at last, replacing his glasses.

"Can you fix the clasp and set new stones?" Richie asked hopefully.

The man seemed to nod. "The prongs that hold the stones may need replacing, too. And it should be cleaned first. Still, I might be able to work something out. Question is, can you afford it?"

Richie frowned slightly. He was down to only three hundred dollars in gift-buying money, which meant that he could only spend two-eighty on the broach so as to leave room for Angie's gift.

"Depends," he hedged with the air of suspicious uncertainty. As a petty thief he had a reliable eye for the resale value of car stereos and the like, but finer things like jewelry — and antiques — were a rare heist for him and so he wasn't as knowledgeable. "How much you think I'll be?"

"That depends on what stones you need," the jeweler replied succinctly.

Here Richie had to think a bit: he didn't remember off hand what color the stones were.

"Blue," he declared with relief after considerable effort.

The jeweler nodded and then bent down, disappearing behind the display case momentarily. When he popped back up a moment later he held what appeared to be a cigar box.

"Sapphires," he announced as he opened the lid. "Unless they were blue diamonds?"

Richie doubted that. If Tessa had lost three diamonds in the mall — well, she would have been a great deal more upset than she had been.

"Sapphires…" he agreed as he stared in wonder at the collection of blue gemstones of varying size and shape — and cost. His birthstone was a sapphire, he belatedly remembered.

"See if you can pick out a matching color."

Richie nodded absently, still captivated by the shimmering brilliance of the stones in front of him. He must have stared at the collection for a good fifteen minutes, weighing the beauty of each variety against his (admittedly faulty) memory of what Tessa's broach looked like intact. However, when he at last made up his mind, his gut told him that he'd chosen as close to the mark as he could have with the given selection.

"Ceylon," the jeweler announced with a satisfied air. "Good choice."

"So how much for three of those, along with all the rest I need?"

The jeweler's eyes seemed to narrow slightly as he considered this. "And when would you need this by?"

"The twenty-third, if possible."

This caused the jeweler's narrowed eyes widen considerably before returning to their look of abject concentration. "It shouldn't prove too difficult," the man appraised, "but the rush will cost you."

"How much?"

"All told? I should say around five hundred."

"_Five hundred!_" Richie balked even as his face paled.

"The stones will cost over a hundred each," the jeweler explained. "Then when you add in the cleaning, repairs, and the haste…" He shrugged, though he wasn't at all apologetic. "And I doubt you'd find another jeweler who could do it for much cheaper — the sapphires cost what they cost. You could always choose a cheaper stone."

Richie cringed. Tessa was the one who thought him cheap, and he couldn't stand to prove her right.

"I have two-eighty on me right now," he said. "In cash. I can give it to you as a down payment and get you the rest when I pick it up."

The jeweler's eyes narrowed yet again. "Half now, half later?"

Richie nodded. "Seems fair to me. After all, you've got the broach. If I stiff you, you can always sell it to make up the difference."

The jeweler seemed to study Richie with the same pragmatism he used to study the broach. Richie tried to hold the man's gaze but, much to his chagrin, he found that he couldn't last for long. When he looked away he resisted the urge to shiver.

"A pewter broach covered in white gold-leaf," he declared at last. "Broken clasp, missing stones — dirty. It will cost you more to fix it up than it would to buy it new, but you don't care about that, do you." The jeweler made a statement of the question and then laughed. Richie noted a twinkle in the man's eye that wasn't there before, and his posture suddenly wasn't quite as stooped, nor his face as careworn. "I'll take your two-eighty cash," he announced. "This little trinket must mean something to you — you'll be back for it. And if not, well, you're right, I can sell it for the difference."

Richie's answering smile was one of immense relief. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and removed all but one of his twenties. These he counted out for the jeweler on the display case and then shoved the pile towards the man.

"Two-eighty," he affirmed.

The jeweler nodded approvingly. "See you on the twenty-third."

Richie was all smiles as he left the jewelry store. His bike wasn't ticketed, Mac's gift was still secure in his saddlebag, and Tessa's gift would be ready for her before she left for the Island. The driving rain that had kicked up while he was inside hardly affected his good mood — though it did make him more cautious on the ride home, which thankfully wasn't far from here.

When Richie returned to the store he waved at Tessa behind the counter before hurrying up the stairs into the loft. At the top of the stairs he kicked off his boots and hung his jacket to dry, and by that time reality had caused quite a bit of his good cheer to abate. He had three days to come up with two hundred and thirty dollars, and his next check wasn't going to clear until after the holidays. He could always ask for an advance, but that would arouse suspicion, and he didn't know anyone who could lend him that much. The only logical choice, he realized, was to pawn the more expensive items in his room — his TV, VCR, and CD player should cover it. He would just have to hope that neither Mac nor Tessa entered his room and discovered their absence before he earned enough to replace them, and that was a rather futile hope.

When Richie entered the kitchen he saw Duncan flipping burgers on a frying pan. Obviously the rain had thwarted his plans for steak-grilling, as the Highlander never cooked red meat on the stove. It was a holdover from the significant portion of his life where the only cooking methods available were grilling and boiling, and since the Highlander was a fairly decent cook Richie allowed the idiosyncrasy. The only way that hamburgers escaped that odd edict was because Mac didn't really consider them _real_ meat.

"Hey, Richie," the man called out when the teen entered his peripheral vision. "Have any luck?"

"Some," Richie answered evasively. Then he was struck by a sudden, troubling thought. "I took care of Tessa's gift," he said, "but I think I should tell you what it is."

This got Duncan's attention. "Oh?"

Richie glanced conspiringly about as though to reassure himself that the Frenchwoman was still downstairs. Then he practically tiptoed over to the Highlander, and spoke in an equally conspiring whisper.

"I overheard you guys talking about her broach so I took it downtown to a jeweler," he said. "It'll be ready by the twenty-third so Tessa can open it up at the cabin."

Duncan's answering smile was genuine if a little surprised. "That was very considerate of you, Rich."

Richie shrugged. "I had no idea what to get her, so…"

"Tessa will be very appreciative of your creativity," the Highlander assured him, and Richie blushed slightly.

"Yeah, well, I thought I'd let you know just in case Tessa goes looking for it before then. As much as I hate to ruin the surprise it would suck if she thought it got lost or something."

Duncan caught the hesitant edge to Richie's voice and wondered if perhaps the lad was secretly afraid that Tessa would think her broach got _stolen_. Unfortunately he couldn't be sure of that, so he couldn't ask. After all, if he was mistaken, what would it do to Richie to hear that such a thought had entered his mind?

"Did you find anything for Angie yet?" he asked instead, trying to keep the subtle airs of worry and defeat from his voice.

"Not quite," Richie admitted, even as doubt caused him to bite the inside of his lip in worrying thought. However, despite the reality that he would need to pawn his electronics and the despairing fact that he really had needed to tell Mac about the broach, Richie was still in too good a mood to heed the small voice in the back of his head that wanted to convince him to simply take the car without asking while its owner was away. He decided to go for broke.

"But I think I have an idea that I wanna run by you."

Duncan arched an inquisitive eyebrow as he flipped the patties over.

"Well, the thing is," Richie began, "Angie's family is all gonna be at her grandparents' up in Cloverbrook — even her cousins, which she hasn't seen in, like, _forever_. Problem is she's scheduled to work at the shelter on Christmas Eve and by the time she gets out it'll be too late for her to drive up there on her bike. I was thinking that maybe I could use my twenty bucks for, say, gas for the T-bird, and give Angie a lift." By the end, Richie's was intently studying his own socks. His mood hadn't really helped his confidence and by the end he was expecting the Highlander's rejection. Staring thusly he missed Duncan's frown of concentration as the man thought about it, and he marked the silence that stretched out in the wait for an answer with considerable hyperbole.

"I'll talk it over with Tessa," Duncan answered at long last, "but I'm pretty sure that's doable."

Richie looked up suddenly and met the Highlander's gaze with a megawatt grin. "Wow, really? — Oh, I mean, thanks Mac!" he stammered. When he finished voicing his request he'd already concluded that permission wasn't going to be forthcoming, and that the awkward silence (in his mind anyway) stemmed from the fact that Duncan was trying to find a gentle way of telling him to forget it.

Duncan answered that stammer with an amused grin and a slight headshake before returning his attention to the burgers.

"If you want to shower before we eat you'd better go now," he said, changing the subject out of necessity.

Richie nodded with his smile still firmly in place. "Yeah, sure."

As he made his way down the hall towards his room and eventually into the bathroom, the pleasant prospect that soon the weather would no longer be a concern for grilling only added to Richie's elation for the fact that finally all three of his Christmas purchases were taken care of. On top of that — and although he'd never be crass enough to ask — it was highly probable that Angie would insist that he spend the holiday with her family in return for the ride. Alone on not, Richie was now quite certain that this Christmas would be one of his better ones.


	5. This is all I'm asking for

Two hundred and thirty dollars was a lot of money, especially when you needed it in a hurry. Richie had three days before he needed to return to the jewelry store, and he couldn't borrow that much in time without arousing suspicion, nor could he ask for an advance on his next paycheck for that same reason. He couldn't find any offers for odd jobs, even in his old neighborhood, as it was too late to be mowing lawns and raking leaves and too early to shovel. That left two options, the first of which he refused outright. That only left one real option, and it wasn't going to be easy.

"What's in the bag?" Tessa asked him, referring to the bulky-looking backpack he was carrying. She was cleaning her workshop and so their paths crossed as he was leaving.

"My cassettes," Richie answered. "I've replaced most of them with CDs anyway, so I thought I'd donate them."

Tessa positively beamed at him. "That's very generous of you, Richie."

Richie half shrugged, blushing slightly. "Like I said, I don't really need them now that I've got the CDs."

That did nothing to lessen Tessa's obvious pride in him. "Are you giving them to the shelter?"

"No, Angie's mom's church runs a thrift shop."

Tessa nodded. She vaguely remembered Richie telling her about Mrs. Burke's devout beliefs. "Will you be back for lunch?" she asked, checking her watch. It was ten a.m.

"Should be," Richie answered. "This won't take long. Chicken soup?" he asked with a rather pathetic plea in his voice.

Tessa shook her head, smiling. "If you want."

"Great! Thanks Tess!" And then he was out the door.

Of course, he hadn't been wholly honest with Tessa. The thrift shop was really a pawn shop, and though it was across the street from a church in his old neighborhood, Richie honestly didn't know if it was the one Mrs. Burke attended.

His entire cassette collection earned him a grand total of sixty-five dollars. As the clerk counted out the bills Richie did his damnedest to remember that this was all for a worthy cause. Tessa, whom he knew thought him cheap, had praised his selflessness not a half hour ago. What would she say if she saw that his charity came with a price, regardless of the motive? Remembering Tessa's broach mostly eased the hollow feeling the crept into his gut as he pocketed the money, but not entirely.

Richie returned to the loft in time for lunch; chicken soup as Tessa had promised him. It wasn't much, just two cans of Campbell's heated up, but it went down nicely on bitingly cold days like today, and he had a nostalgic fondness for it.

"So what are we doing for Mac again?" he asked her around another spoonful. The Highlander's birthday was only two days away.

"He said that he didn't want anything special," Tessa answered him.

"Why not? I thought four hundred was like a landmark birthday or something."

"Most adults do not look forward to those landmarks," Tessa reminded him dryly.

"True," Richie conceded. "But wouldn't an immortal want to celebrate how long they've lived?"

"You seemed to have confused immortals with teenagers," Tessa pointed out with abject humor.

"I dunno," Richie hedged. "I don't think I'd mind getting older half as much if it didn't involve gray hairs and arthritis."

"You'll just have to ask him yourself during his birthday dinner."

Richie nodded. "Fair enough. So, are we eating in or going out?"

"Eating in. I thought I'd cook something special."

Richie made a face. "It's not haggis is it?"

"What if it is?" Tessa challenged with an arched eyebrow.

"Then I'm sticking the side dishes."

"If you insist," Tessa acquiesced. "Do peas and couscous work for you?"

Richie's eyes widened and his expression registered abject horror for the five seconds it took for him to realize that Tessa was teasing him. While she _may_ serve haggis to MacLeod on his birthday, she certainly wouldn't also pick side dishes that Richie found equally stomach-turning.

"Very funny," he groused, though he was smiling slightly when he said it. "What are we _really_ having?"

Tessa allowed herself to laugh at last, now that she no longer needed to pretend to be serious. "Lamb," she answered through the lingering smile. "With roasted potatoes."

Richie visibly sagged with relief. "I knew you couldn't be that cruel."

Tessa simply laughed again as she stood to clear the table.

After lunch Richie returned to his room. He still had to come up with a hundred and sixty-five dollars. The cassettes were an easy choice because, with the easy lie, no one would question their absence. Of course, this meant that he couldn't pawn his CDs now. At least, not many of them. In hindsight it probably would have been smarter to keep the cassettes and pawn the more valuable CDs, but retrograding would have required a fancier lie and one that he didn't think he could have pulled off. Still, it should be possible for him to part with at least _some_ of his CDs. They currently had a small bookshelf all to themselves, but if he stacked them on top of each other instead of standing them in line…

All he had to do was clean his room a bit. The near constant mess he deliberately lived in always made it appear as though he had more possessions than he actually did.

Apart from the CDs there were few items in his room that would be worth selling, namely his boom box, his TV, and his VCR. Unfortunately their disappearances would be easily noticed. Richie debated his options as he thoroughly de-cluttered his room. He thought about pawning his VHS tapes, but they posed the same problem as the CDs.

In the end he wound up cleaning out the bookshelf that had housed his VHS collection. What remained of his CDs and VHS tapes were now consolidated in the same bookshelf, and he could only hope that stacking them differently would obscure the truth of the collections' reductions. Then he moved some of the decorative items and knickknacks from his dresser and nightstand into the empty bookshelf, weeded through the piles of laundry until everything clean was put away and everything dirty was in the hamper, and called it clean. Mac and Tessa would be pleased, at any rate, as well as (hopefully) oblivious.

"Going out?" MacLeod was at the table wrapping a large box in bright green paper when Richie tried to make his exit.

"Yeah," Richie answered, gearing up for the eventual lie. "I won't be late."

"Going shopping?" Duncan asked, eying the backpack Richie had slung over his shoulder. Fortunately he didn't notice that it had a few extra corners.

Richie nodded smoothly. "With Angie. I'm helping her with her secret Santa gift."

"Going to the mall?"

"Maybe. I'm meeting her at the shelter — she gets off shift in twenty minutes."

Duncan didn't detect anything amiss with that statement and so he nodded dismissively, returning to his wrapping. "Have fun then. I doubt you'll be home for dinner?"

"Heh, probably not," Richie was forced to 'admit.' It would look suspicious if he came home too early from a night of hanging with friends. "See ya."

Richie left the loft with an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He hated lying to Duncan perhaps more than he hated lying to Tessa, seeing as how there were never any pretenses or expectations with the Highlander. The fact that for once the lies were necessary and the excuse a worthy one didn't help much either. Especially since now he was on his own for dinner. As he drove his bike back to the pawn shop Richie tried to decide if he could afford to blow some of his expected earnings on fast food and sent an errant prayer vaguely heavenward that Angie wouldn't call while he was out.

This time he left the pawn shop with an even fifty bucks. Of course, he still had at least two hours to kill before he could return to the loft without having to answer questions about the uncharacteristic earliness of his evening. Richie's growling stomach decided the dinner question for him, much to his chagrin. He would have liked to have put off eating until he returned to the loft so to save money, but if he didn't eat when he was hungry he could expect a headache. With a dejected sigh he decided to drive to the mall after all. He could get something cheap yet decent in the food court, and then he'd be able to answer the eventual questions about mall traffic without having to make something up.

When exactly he switched from favoring lies to preferring the truth, Richie didn't exactly know.

* * *

The next morning left Richie with two days to come up with one hundred and nineteen dollars. He spent every spare moment of his opening shift in the store debating what to do next. His television and VCR were out of the question as he'd never be able to explain their absence. His boom box he might get away with though. It would be easy to convince Mac and Tessa that Angie had casually mentioned that the shelter needed one and that he could easily survive with just his disc-man, which he really preferred anyway…

"I couldn't help but notice you cleaned your room." Tessa voice snagged his attention. A quick glance at his watch told Richie that his shift was over.

"Yeah," he admitted sheepishly. "I made a mess of it trying to find all my tapes yesterday."

Tessa arched an amused eyebrow. "You mean you could tell the difference?"

"Funny," Richie deadpanned, though immediately afterwards he was laughing good-naturedly at the barb.

"Well I hope you keep it that way. Your room looks so much nicer clean."

"I'll take it under advisement," Richie replied as he came out from behind the counter at last. "Well, I'm outta here."

"Oh? Going somewhere?"

"I'm meeting Angie at the shelter," Richie easily lied.

"Are you going shopping again?"

"Nah, I just wanna drop off my boom box. They want to play some holiday music but their tape player broke so I'm lending them mine." Once again he felt his insides burn from the pride in the smile she graced him with.

"Well you've certainly caught the spirit of the season," she praised.

"I just wanna help spread a little cheer," he demurred, blushing more from shame than from embarrassment — not that anyone could tell the difference.

"That's a fine ambition."

"Yeah, well, don't let it get out, ok? I'd hate to lose my rep."

Tessa grinned at him and shook her head. "Whatever you say, Richie."

The redirect worked and Richie was able to make his escape without having to suffer more of Tessa's good opinions. To think that only a few days ago he had been on the brink of despair for hearing how lowly she'd thought of him. For some reason, knowing how highly she thought of him at this moment almost felt worse.

Back in his room, Richie shoved his boom box into a duffel bag. It was top of the line, with two tape decks and a CD player, and it was the sight of those tape decks that gave him a sudden flash of inspiration. Moments later Richie was digging through the bottom drawer of his desk, looking for his old walk-man. He hadn't used it since he bought the disc-man, but he found it at the bottom of the drawer and hoped it still worked. It didn't have batteries though, and even if he swapped some into it he didn't have a tape to test it with, hence why he no longer needed it. He added it to the duffel and then zipped the bag shut with a pensive frown. The walk-man wouldn't be missed, but unfortunately his boom box might. If either of them asked, he could always claim that he'd decided to let the shelter keep it. After all, it's not like he couldn't afford to buy a new one.

When he hoisted the duffel over his shoulder Richie fervently wished that he could confess his lies to Angie so that she couldn't accidentally reveal them. However, that hearkened back to his original argument over why he couldn't buy her those garnet earrings. How could he admit to her that he'd overspent on his Christmas presents this year when she knew he only had three presents to buy and a budget greater than the entire secret Santa pool to buy them with? Back when he'd been chronically unemployed (and a few other things, besides), he used to dream of what it would be like once he'd 'made it,' and what it would be like to finally have a disposable income. Guilt had never factored into those dreams.

At least such thoughts kept him from regretting that he didn't buy the earrings.

* * *

It turned out his walk-man wasn't worth much, but the boom box was another story. The grand total added up to the very nice sum of one hundred and ten dollars. Richie was grinning from ear to ear as he watched the clerk count out the money.

Unfortunately, some quick mental math caused the smile to fall rather quickly. He was still nine bucks short and he'd run out of things to pawn. Tessa had already seen the new state of his room, and with it being clean for once it wouldn't be easy to remove anything. Not that he had much left that held more than sentimental value anyway. Aside from his TV and VCR of course, but those items were out of the question. He couldn't use the shelter excuse again, and a lie about taking one of them to the repair shop probably wouldn't live long enough for his next check to clear.

"Something else I can do for you?" the clerk asked him. He'd been standing at the counter, money momentarily forgotten in his hands as his mind wandered over the dilemma rather than staying in the here and now.

Richie blinked, offered a sheepish grin that didn't meet his eyes, and shoved the bills into his wallet. He was contemplating removing the saddle bags from his bike, but again such an absence would be too prominent to risk. Then suddenly, as if by chance, he glanced down and saw salvation.

"How much could I get for this?" he asked as he unfastened his watch. The clerk took it from him and studied it for a moment.

"Five bucks," he answered eventually, handing the watch back to Richie.

Richie's hope deflated. "Could I get you to go for nine?" he asked pleadingly.

The clerk gave him a flat stare. "It ain't worth that much, kid." And he was right. The face was scratched and the leather band was falling apart. He'd inherited it from Gary, who'd worn it for years. Richie had coveted it from the moment he laid eyes on it, even as time had been less than kind. The Corrells had given it to him some time after Gary's funeral. He'd always meant to at least replace the band, but like Tessa and her broach, he just hadn't yet gotten around to it. If only he'd taken the time…

"Please?" Richie all but begged. "I only need nine more bucks and I can afford everything on my gift list."

"Six," the clerk conceded as though it were a major concession.

"Eight? In the spirit of Christmas?"

"I'm an atheist," the clerk replied impatiently with a false grin, "and six's my final offer."

Richie hung his head, half a nod, and let the watch gently tumble out of his fingers and onto the counter. He couldn't bring himself to look as the clerk scooped it up, but he did manage to glance up again when he heard the cash register ding opened. Now he truly had nothing left, and he was still three dollars short.

* * *

One dollar and ninety-eight cents short. Richie had scoured the apartment, but all he found beneath the couch cushions, in the basket on the washing machine, and in every drawer outside of the master bedroom amounted to a grand total of two quarters, four dines, one nickel, and seven pennies. Richie lay sprawled across his bed, staring at the ceiling, with the pile of change sitting on his nightstand. He still needed a buck ninety-eight, and none of the solutions he came up with to find it sat well with him.

He knew Mac kept pocket change atop his dresser. He wouldn't take it.

Tessa probably had some loose coins in the bottom of her purse. He wouldn't look.

He could easily abscond with some of the petty cash in the store register as a two-dollar deficit could have been chalked up to a simple accounting error. He didn't care.

No way, no how, in no shape or form would Richie ever steal from Mac and Tessa again, even if it was just loose change, even if he was only borrowing without permission and could pay them back before they ever found out. He'd come up with something better, or he'd walk into that jewelry store one dollar and ninety-eight cents short and pray the jeweler had more compassion than the pawn shop clerk.

For the time being, something better wound up being a walk. It was still mid afternoon, and Richie decided that the fresh air would help clear his head. His wrist felt naked without Gary's watch, and past memories of his whole world riding on his ability to find spare change began an unwanted parade through the darker recesses of his mind.

As Richie wound his way down the narrow, affluent streets of the Heights, he kept his eyes peeled for coins discarded on the sidewalk and tried to come up with more reliable way to get the money. He thought about giving blood, but then he remembered his all-too-recent hospital stays, and the surgery that would prevent him from being eligible for a few months yet. He thought about panhandling, but in this neighborhood that would get him busted for loitering and he wasn't in the mood to trudge back to the loft to get his bike.

Richie eventually made his way to the Seacouver Commons, but to his dismay the fountain was off and its pool had frozen over. _Just as well_, he mused dejectedly as he collapsed onto a bench nearby. _Supposed to be bad luck anyway_.

Richie halted the pity party when he noticed that it was getting dark. This being the day before the solstice, it was still rather early so at least he wouldn't be late for dinner by the time he got back. Tired, frozen, depressed, and still a buck ninety-eight short yes, but not late. Richie snorted in derision for such a meager silver lining as he stood from the bench and began the long trek home.

He'd made it most of the way there when he heard it: the loud peal of a Salvation Army Santa's bell. His eyes swiftly swept over the area, and he found him instantly; thin, red suited, black sideburns sticking down below the red Santa hat, and false beard dangling awkwardly from his chin. A thoroughly miserable-looking young man, completely failing to embody any aspect of the cultural icon he was supposed to incarnate, except perhaps for the redness in his cheeks and nose stemming from too many hours out here in the cold. Richie felt a wave of sympathy for the man ringing his bell in a dilapidated metronome. Yet there was something more sad than lazy about the picture he presented, as though the spirit of goodwill he was supposed to represent was being pigeonholed where it didn't quite fit, or that too little of it was being stretched across too vast an expanse, exposing its transparency.

The chill wind that suddenly stung his exposed flesh snapped Richie out of his introspective mood and back to the present. His eyes drifted from the cold, bored Santa and to his open-topped collection pot, dangling at hip level from a rickety tripod. In that instant, he knew that he had his solution at last. In that same instant, he knew that he would hate himself for it.

He didn't know how long he stood there frozen in the sea of people, staring at the farcical Santa and his collection pot. There were numerous bills in there, and an insurmountable pile of coins. It would be so easy…

… And that's what scared him. Never in all his life, even with the mile-long thieving-related rap sheet, had he been tempted to steal from charity. Never before — when the stealing had been for survival, for frivolous things, or even for the adrenaline rush — had he even considered the temptation that now held him in a vice-like grip. Through the crippling indecision, Richie had to wonder what type of person that made him, that for Tessa he would shamelessly rob a Salvation Army Santa.

He had to wonder what type of person that made Tessa.

It was these thoughts though that broke the spell. Just as swiftly as it had seized him, the notion passed. Richie felt slightly dizzy in its wake, but that might have been from how quickly he turned on his heels and bolted back down the street in the other direction.

* * *

It took him longer that it should have to make it back to the loft. Mac and Tessa were probably worried about him. Even still, he didn't much care, so grateful he was to be home again. Richie the Thief had never lived here, and that alone was comfort enough.

Or so he'd thought, before he found himself bent over the slop sink in Tessa's workshop, throwing up.

When at last his stomach calmed Richie ran the water, flushing his sickness down the drain. He held a hand under the water and used it to wipe his mouth, then replaced it in the stream to wash it off. When the sink was clean again he shut the faucet off and dried his hand hastily on his jeans. The face that stared back at him in the paint- and water-stained mirror looked two days dead.

"Where have you been?" Duncan asked him when he entered the loft. He was laying out wrapping materials on the table — obviously he and Tessa had finished dinner without him.

"Went for a walk," Richie explained tiredly.

"For three hours?" Duncan sounded slightly incredulous.

"Was a long walk."

Duncan took a moment to study the boy. His face was flushed and his eyes seemed slightly glazed — not unexpected considering he'd just spent three hours out in the cold. Still, he couldn't help the sudden feeling of foreboding.

"Tessa left the casserole in the oven for you if you're hungry," he informed the teenager. Richie's appetite was the best litmus test for his health and mood.

"Not hungry," Richie dismissed. "Maybe later."

Simplistic answers and no appetite, Duncan mused. Yes, something was definitely up.

"Why don't you shower then? You look half frozen." There was mild concern coloring the Highlander's voice, and he didn't try to hide it.

"'S not that cold," Richie mumbled around a half shrug.

Duncan's slow nod revealed his skepticism. "You should shower anyway. It'll make you feel better."

"Maybe," Richie conceded before he could stop himself. The odd response caught Duncan's attention and the teenager couldn't long withstand the Highlander's scrutinizing gaze.

"Richie—"

"Shower sounds good," Richie cut off Duncan's hesitant attempt to… ask whatever it was he was going to ask. Then he flashed his most plastic grin and proceeded down the hallway towards the bathroom, leaving a confused and moderately concerned Highlander staring after him.

Richie stayed in the shower until the water ran cold. While he warmed up soon enough, no amount of scrubbing and rinsing was able to make him feel clean again.


End file.
